When our talk finally turned to the script, Andy did something I'll never forget. Rather than getting into a long talk about the character of Vince, he stood up and said he'd thought of something that Vince might do at the end of the movie, when the whole family is exploding in confessions about their secret lives. I watched and waited ... and then Andy twirled around in pain, agony and exhaustion and sat down on the ground holding his head, defeated and incongruously (and literally) floored. The gesture was perfect -- both humorous and genuinely pained. In a sense, we never needed to discuss much about Vince again -- this is the kind of  thing that lets you know an actor truly "gets it." The gesture survives -- it's in the movie and it works wonderfully well.

Before the day was over, we'd made another kind of connection. Both of us are, essentially, entrepreneurial in spirit; I have never thought of myself as working "for" anyone (to my own detriment at times, but still, that's who I am) and have always looked at every movie as a sort of start-up business, one that with a few good breaks will turn into the long-awaited cash cow that all entrepreneurs dream of.

And Andy is not just an actor. He's a producer, a filmmaker, a musician and a supporter of anything in those fields he believes in. My feeling was that, between us, we were sitting with most of the firepower we needed, if it was harnessed correctly. So without much thought about it beforehand, I simply proposed that he and I become partners -- co-producers -- on the movie. Together we would find a way to mount it -- cast it, finance it, the whole thing. Remember, we had nothing but a script, a director and an actor. But the actor was so right for the script ... and the director came cheap.

First stop would be letting some of the better companies know that Andy was attached to a new project -- a script that we both thought would be regarded not as an "art film" but as a highly accessible family comedy. Our lives would be considerably easier if Sony, say, or Fox Searchlight jumped on board and helped pull the movie together.

I believe we went out to Sony, Fox Searchlight and Paramount Vantage. All three passed. Now, while this isn't unusual at all -- what's truly unusual is when they want to do something -- it still always chips away at a little bit of your heart. It's like somebody turning down your kid for something your kid wants to do. (Like maybe he wants in on the wrestling team but is too wimpy? I don't know -- you know the feeling I'm getting at.)

To put what a "pass" truly means into perspective, let me jump ahead about three years to just a couple of months ago. I'm sitting down with an executive at a production company on the Warner Bros. lot. "City Island" is by now a finished film, which she likes. In fact, the executive tells me, she read it back when it was submitted to Paramount Vantage, where she was then an executive. She thought it was terrific back then and knew it would make a good movie.

I couldn't help but ask: "Then why did you guys pass on it?"

She shook her head, threw her hands up and said words to the effect of: "Changes in executive structure ... in-house priorities changing ... company wanting to go in a different direction ..." Et cetera. In other words, it had little if anything to do with my script and star. And this is probably the truth -- that most things don't happen in Hollywood simply because the white noise of the business creates its own chaos and confusion and it's easier to simply ... pass.

I suggested that we send it out to some actors for other roles and start building up the cast. Andy agreed and we brought in Sheila Jaffe, who had cast my previous films, to start helping us with a list of names and some ideas as to availabilities. One of Andy's best traits emerged here -- that of being completely behind the material and willing to reach into his phone book if necessary to get the script out to actors he knew. It's a little hard for me to remember all the names now, but two of the early submissions we made were to Michelle Pfeiffer (for the role of his wife) and Justin Timberlake for the role of his son. Timberlake knew Andy and got back -- via his manager -- fairly quickly to say that he liked the script but was about to begin an endless tour and so couldn't commit. Fine. A nice pass, but a pass nonetheless.

The real surprise, though, was Michelle Pfeiffer. I think she was our very first stop and her CAA agent called to say that she liked it. It wasn't exactly a "yes" -- more of a "Wait and see ... she's reading other things ... liked the script and likes Andy." (The two had worked together once before.)

And then, after a few weeks of nothing, she passed as well.

And then, in what seemed like a flash, two different actors suddenly expressed interest, which led to a third actor expressing interest. Marcia Gay Harden read it and liked the role of the wife. Chloë Sevigny read it and liked it (for the role of Molly, Vince’s muse and acting class partner). And Marcia Gay Harden's agent also represented a young actor named Steven Strait, who wanted to meet me about the role of Vince's older son.

I met Marcia Gay Harden at the Four Seasons Hotel in L.A., where she was getting ready to do a slew of promotions for a very good movie she did with Richard Gere called "Hoax" (concerning the author Clifford Irving, who wrote a fake autobiography of Howard Hughes). It must have been mid-morning on a weekend, because the dining room/salon was eerily empty -- she walked in looking around a little perplexed, as if everyone had been evacuated for some reason.

We introduced ourselves, I told her how much I liked her work, she said nice things about the script. And then an interesting thing happened: She began to interview me. Or so it seemed. Rather than let the meeting be about me checking her out for the role (which it never really was to begin with), she made sure -- with grace and skill -- that the shoe was on the other foot; was I a clear-headed, together enough filmmaker for her to be willing to work with -- that seemed to be the guiding vibe of the first part of our conversation. I love when actors take situations in their own hands and so I was more entranced by the shift than thrown by it. After awhile we seemed to relax into everyday stuff. I remember talking with her about her kids, my son, where she lived in New York, etc. She was at once frank, funny and just self-protective enough to send you a clear message: She didn't go where she wasn't comfortable. No way.

Fortunately, she was comfortable enough to allow us to go ahead and use her name to help get the movie up and going. She was excited, I was delighted.

Next I met Steven Strait. Since the Four Seasons had been good luck for me with MGH, I suggested it as a possible meeting spot. The time was early evening on a Saturday. This time the place was jammed. Loud. Oppressive. As showbizzy and uptight and see-and-be-seen, if-you're-nobody-then-piss off, as you could imagine. I instantly regretted the choice -- this young actor whom I'd never met would no doubt think I was yet another glad-handing, West Hollywood-cruising, scene-making, showbiz-addicted wannabe. Indeed, I remember thinking to myself, maybe I really was all of those things and it was time to face who I'd become.

Fortunately Steven -- young in years, aged in wisdom and serenity -- didn't seem to care one way or the other. He is such a commanding presence -- not just because of his super-handsomeness, but because of his aforementioned calm, his sweet and accepting nature -- that the role reversal here was similar to my meeting with Marcia but for different reasons. People looked at us, wondering who the middle-aged shlub was, lucky enough to be sitting and hanging out with the young handsome actor who was in that caveman movie. I'm sure most of them thought I was a publicist of some sort. Or, more likely, a journalist in search of a raggy little interview ...

Next was Chloë Sevigny. I bet you think I met her at the Four Seasons. Well, no. She was in L.A., doing publicity for "Big Love" and they'd put her at the Chateau Marmont on Sunset. So we met there. This time, Andy Garcia accompanied me and I remember sitting out in the pretty, smog-choked patio garden talking with her about the role of Molly. She liked the script and liked the other cast we had.

There was one thing about Chloë that I remember thinking was a just a bit ... well, let's not say strange, since we are talking about the costar of Vincent Gallo's "The Brown Bunny" and so strange is perhaps to be expected. I remember thinking, though, that there was a slight tinge of puzzlement, of not quite seeming to know why we were so interested in her for the movie. She was demure about her abilities -- charmingly so and incorrectly, I think -- and didn't delve deeply into the script or role. Things stayed pleasant and on the surface. It didn't bother me and at the time I put it down to actor insecurity -- actors really do come in all shapes and sizes and not everyone has the personal command of Marcia Gay Harden, or the cool charm of Andy Garcia.

So we had four great actors attached to our script. It was early fall, 2007. We'd been at work on the project, Andy and I, for almost a year. Not a bad place to have gotten to. Alas, still not one red cent toward production seemed to be in view.

If the Oscars actually meant anything of consequence, last night's verdict would be tragic. But they don't, haven't ever, and this is example 753 (approximately, your results may vary) of why.

In essence: The one year the academy awards the plucky underdog "indie," it is the wrong "indie," in the wrong year.

But should we expect anything more? The Oscars are, as ever, a shabby high school popularity contest and a new, soon-to-be-forgotten head of student council has just been elected: Long live the King of the World. He wuz robbed by Tracy Flick.

 Erik Nelson is the director of the Harlan Ellison documentary "Dreams With Sharp Teeth," and the producer of Werner Herzog's Oscar-nominated "Encounters at the End of the World," along with other films and TV programs. 

"The Hurt Locker": Far superior to "The Deer Hunter"

It was a terrible program, but I'm happy about the awards. Politically speaking, supporting "The Hurt Locker" certainly beats the support given to an atrocity like "The Deer Hunter" or even the recognition given to "Hearts and Minds" that should have gone to "Winter Soldier" two years earlier or "In the Year of the Pig" six years earlier. The clear boost given to serious and relatively independent work over studio fluff is a decided improvement over the usual Academy taste.

Jonathan Rosenbaum is the longtime film critic for the Chicago Reader and the author of "Essential Cinema," "Movies as Politics," "Discovering Orson Welles" and other books.

 Indie film's coffin is lined with shiny Oscars

Last night's Oscars were so dull and out of step with the present that I could barely keep my eyes open. It took me back to my youth, when I could never stay awake watching them.

The opening number felt like a high school spoof of the Spirit Awards. Shouldn't a celebration of art and entertainment aim to contextualize all that is great about this Dream Factory? OK, if they can't figure out how to do that, I would be fine with several hours of crass puns like the song-and-dance intro promised -- but no. We get four hours of dullness instead. The fun of the show becomes critiquing all the mistakes.

There should be a semiotics class devoted to the moment when Kathryn Bigelow won best director. First Barbra Streisand hogged the spotlight by not announcing Bigelow's name but instead taking the moment for herself to announce that history had been made. And then the show's directors had the gall to play "I Am Woman, Hear Me Roar" in the background?! I guess they wanted to show they had balls. She so deserved it, they knew she would win, and they come up with something "cute" and antiquated to comment on it? I may be an old white straight guy, but the show gave my group a bad name.

Most of all, the Oscars felt like a nightmare. 2010 will be remembered as the year the indie film infrastructure truly collapsed, yet -- again! -- indies took every possible award for which they were viable. The lack of a support structure or financial model for the majority of these films will be what prevents subsequent sweeps in the years ahead. Since the indie way produces superior creative work, you'd think Hollywood would make it a priority to find a way to keep indie films alive. Whether it be fair acquisition fees, accounting to encourage sustainable-equity investment, producer overhead deals, or just trust in their collaborators, it would be nice if something was left of the old ways to give hope for indie film's future. Instead, I can't help but suspect the Powers That Be must resign themselves to the fact that if they want studios to win Oscars again, they have to kill off indies completely. I think I heard the hammer hitting the nail of indie's coffin last night. Here's hoping I am not buried in it.

Ted Hope is the producer or executive producer of many films, including "Adventureland," "Friends With Money," "American Splendor" and "In the Bedroom." He blogs at Truly Free Film, where an earlier version of this post first appeared.

The Oscars' identity crisis

The show seemed incredibly misguided. They had an impressive opening production number from hosting pro Neil Patrick Harris ... and then didn't have him host. They tried pandering to a younger demographic by getting Kristen Stewart, Taylor Lautner, Miley Cyrus and Amanda Seyfried to show up ... and recite the same canned patter as presenters twice their age. They mounted a tribute to horror films ... filled with movies that stretch the definition of "horror," and with virtually no acknowledgment of the accomplished horror films of 2009. They rushed through the best song nominees without performances ... but made time for wholly mismatched dance numbers to the nominated scores. I spent the whole ceremony baffled by the producers' choices.

Josh Bell is an editor at Las Vegas Weekly.

The gawdy spectacle turns out to be ... discerning?

There was a kind of pseudo nightclub atmosphere, but the attempt at intimacy never works. Everyone's just a little too stiff. And the whole thing is undone by the eclecticism of trying to please so many different constituencies. But the willingness to give so many awards to "The Hurt Locker" made up for a lot. Not just best picture and director but also best sound and screenplay, almost bafflingly discerning. And I did love the merging of actual screenplays with the scenes described.

Molly Haskell is an author and critic. Her books include "From Reverence to Rape: The Treatment of Women in the Movies," "Frankly My Dear: 'Gone With the Wind' Revisited" and the memoir "Love and Other Infectious Diseases."

"Avatar" is a phenomenon, not a work of art

I’ve had a strong personal and critical affinity for Kathryn Bigelow since "Near Dark." Her kinetic, abstract and lyrical style of action filmmaking is something to behold.

I saw the second public performance at Toronto about 18 months ago, and I thought it was an intelligent, gripping, extraordinarily vivid style of filmmaking. I hope it encourages people to look at Bigelow's earlier work (and finally get good DVD transfers of "Near Dark," "Blue Steel" and "Strange Days.")

"Avatar" is a phenomenon, but it’s seriously flawed and problematic as a work of movie art, and it didn’t deserve to win the best director or best film prize. I have serious problems with it winning for best cinematography. Don’t get me wrong, I think Mauro Fiore is a very talented cinematographer who’s very good at capturing motion and activity. But so much of the visual design is a production of computer graphics, animation art and other hybrid technology, it’s a bit of a stretch to give the award for that.

The most appalling part, though, was the manner by which Roger Corman and Gordon Willis got seriously shortchanged, their contributions not properly acknowledged. Corman is a significant artist, a talented filmmaker in his own right, who is largely responsible for the careers of such varied and imposing directors as Francis Ford Coppola, Peter Bogdanovich, Jonathan Demme, Ron Howard, Jonathan Kaplan and John Sayles (those are the ones who immediately come to mind).

Willis shot Coppola’s "Godfather" trilogy and Woody Allen’s major artistic breakthroughs, "Annie Hall" and "Manhattan." It just seems wrong on so many levels to downplay their historical and cultural accomplishments, and not give them a chance to be heard or really even seen.

As happy as I was, to a point, about the awards, there was very little excitement or drama in the presentation; it had no real structure or identity, beginning, again, as a kind of ersatz Vegas dinner show and going downward. The writing was largely bloodless and stale; the television direction was also very uninspired. I was struck by how little energy was present.

Patrick Z. McGavin is a freelance critic and blogger.

But enough! Basta! Even the most ardent, Bazin-quoting, Buñuel-loving film snob has to admit there's one undeniable, if slightly morbid, reason to stop worrying and love the Oscars: "In Memoriam," the annual tribute to the movie giants who have passed away over the previous year. "In Memoriam" is the mother of all greatest-hits montages, a four-minute lesson in film history. As golden moments from our collective movie memory fill the screen of the Kodak Theatre, it's like stepping into the final scene of Giuseppe Tornatore's "Cinema Paradiso," where the censored clips from classic movie romances wash across the hero's eyes in a tidal wave of nostalgia. Unrepentant sentimentality suddenly feels appropriate. Exuberant expressions of gratitude cut any lingering traces of sarcasm or snark like a machete. "Wasn't Alec Guinness an actor of uncommon grace and versatility?" you might reflect. "Was Richard Widmark not the most badass villain who ever graced the silver screen?" Film nerd-dom reigns.

This year's segment should continue the trend. Over the past 12 months, we lost the sublime Eric Rohmer, the effortlessly intelligent Natasha Richardson and legendary film composer Maurice Jarre. We saw the passing of teen movie maverick John Hughes, "On the Waterfront" screenwriter Budd Schulberg and actress Jennifer Jones, who received a staggering four consecutive best-actress nominations in the 1940s, and won for "The Song of Bernadette." The thought of Sunday's tribute is enough to give any movie lover a case of premature nostalgia, remembering the event before it has even occurred.

The cinema's remarkable power as a vessel for nostalgia is precisely what gives "In Memoriam" its emotional charge. The medium has an unparalleled capacity to capture an artist's creative spirit in its prime, preserving its essence for posterity. As critic Philip Lopate once observed in an essay on the films of Carl Theodor Dreyer, "perhaps there is something in the very nature of film, whose images live or die by projected beams of light, that courts the invisible, the otherwordly." Dreyer was no fan of montages, believing that a certain spiritual and aesthetic stillness was integral to the movie camera's mission, but he might have made an exception for "In Memoriam." Its crystalline images and smooth dissolves echo the Great Dane's efforts "to record the motions of the soul."

Or maybe "In Memoriam" is just an elegant way to give whoever's hosting the Oscars a bathroom break before throwing to a Doritos commercial. Whatever the reason for its inclusion in the Academy Awards, it's a welcome reassurance that, warts and all, they remain a wonderful celebration of the movies. As the segment's last image fades to black, we may find our critical synapses reigniting: "Why did they devote 30 seconds to George Harrison but only three to Akira Kurosawa? Did they really leave out Brad Renfro and Robert Goulet?" But even then, caught in the most dyspeptic throes of Oscar angst, we are as inextricably tied to this annual ritual as Jack Twist and Ennis del Mar were to their yearly trips to Brokeback Mountain. "You are too much for me, Oscar," we yell at the TV every year. "I wish I knew how to quit you." "In Memoriam" reminds us why we never do. 

I'm no good at picking acting awards, but I know the smart money is on Jeff Bridges and Sandra Bullock. (Does that presage a major Republican sweep in November?) I'd prefer to think it's a Clooney-Streep year; that's a fine blend that's not going to make anybody unhappy. I write that without even having seen "Julie and Julia," mind you. I love Meryl Streep almost always, in almost everything, and it isn't the chick-ness of the film that's driven me away, exactly. (I saw "Mamma Mia," for God's sake!) Mo'Nique is a shoo-in, and so, I suppose, is Christoph Waltz, although I think "Inglourious Basterds" is a vastly overrated film and suspect Waltz is skating on slimy, superficial Euro-urbanity. Best documentary is a category I should be able to pick but never can -- I'm betting on "Food, Inc." this year, without much confidence.

As far as what should happen, but probably won't -- I'd love to see "The White Ribbon" win the foreign-language award, largely because I suspect that if and when dour Austrian auteur Michael Haneke actually touches an Oscar statuette, the universe will implode. It's like a matter-antimatter reaction, something that defies and subverts the laws of physics.

We definitely won't see Agnès Varda pick up an Oscar for her autobiographical documentary "The Beaches of Agnès," which wasn't even nominated. That is absolutely scandalous, but it's no good being scandalized by the Academy nominators being idiots and philistines. That's more or less their job. All Varda did was launch the French New Wave and become a pioneering female filmmaker when there weren't any role models (who weren't Nazis). I don't even want to say this -- it's not like there's some competition between them -- but that kind of puts Kathryn Bigelow, whom I admire, in the shade.

Lisa Rosman, critic for Us Weekly, Flavorpill and other outlets:

Predictions: While Kathryn Bigelow accepts her Oscar, the camera will focus for a miserably long time on Cameron, and vice versa when Cameron wins his (I agree it will be a split).

What I'd like to see: I want someone to thank their psychic (obviously), their rehab and (of course) their plastic surgeon.

Rosemary Picado, freelance writer and Open Salon blogger:

This year as I'm hosting my annual Oscar party, I know only one thing for sure. I'm going to miss Hugh Jackman's tour de force as host. Don't get me wrong, Alec Baldwin and Steve Martin are great picks, and I'm actually glad they have a duo. It's a job almost too big for one man or woman. (Maybe the Academy should have tapped "30 Rock" co-host Tina Fey as well.) But it's hard to beat a song-and-dance-man of Jackman's charm and abilities for a night of the kind of pageantry the Oscars always strives for, but rarely achieves. Though reviews were mixed, I thought last year was pretty awesome. Who else could fill Jackman's shoes? Dare I suggest Stephen Colbert? Check out his Christmas special for some serious song-and-dance-man cred. Unlike Jon Stewart, Colbert has the ability to pull off postmodern humor in such a way that an older audience doesn't notice he's being postmodern. Or if the Academy really wanted to be daring, get another SNL fave, Dwayne ("The Rock") Johnson. Playing the Tooth Fairy isn't getting him any nominations, but a hosting gig? Why not? But I digress.

With the larger pool of nominations for the major categories this year, we may see split votes in many categories that let dark horses through. I imagine Bigelow will walk away with best director. Despite "Avatar's" success, Cameron has his Oscar. Oscar voters are all about rewarding an artist for cumulative works (see the wins for "The Lord of the Rings: Return of the King"). Women directors are due. And so is Jeff Bridges. He'll definitely walk away with his first well-deserved award for an amazing body of work. Mo'Nique deserves supporting actress for a performance that gave me chills. I'd love to see "Precious" star Gabourey Sidibe win for best actress as well, but that's just my Cinderella dream for her. Beyond that, I think it's a crapshoot.

Judy Berman, Open Salon editor:

Prediction: Drunk Meryl Streep. It never fails. Even if she doesn't win (and she probably won't), she'll be good for a hilariously sloppy post-ceremony interview.

What we should see: Kathryn Bigelow wins best director and/or best picture and begins her acceptance speech by saying, "You know what? James was right. I did deserve this more than he did."

Scott Mendelson, Open Salon blogger:

Predictions: Kathryn Bigelow will definitely win best director for "The Hurt Locker." She'll probably receive a gigantic plurality of the votes.

Gabourey Sidibe will, alas, not win best actress for "Precious." I adore Bullock's work in "The Blind Side," but Sidibe was a master class in underacting. I love "Avatar" as much as anyone, but nothing would make me happier than seeing "Up" pull the mother of all upsets and win best picture. Won't happen, but it would be a wonderful surprise.

I'd love to see "Food, Inc." win best documentary, but I think it will go to the slightly more buzzed-about "The Cove." And yes, as we've been saying for months on end, this year will be a split ticket, with "Avatar" winning best picture and Bigelow winning best director. And you can bet that photos of Cameron and Bigelow standing together and clutching Oscars will be the lead photo in most online and print publications on Sunday night and Monday morning.

Howard Feinstein, critic for Screen International, the Guardian, indieWIRE and other publications:

As much as I love "The White Ribbon" -- the best film I saw last year -- all polls show that the ancient Academy fogies who vote for this are going for an evidently sentimental Argentine film called "The Secret in Their Eyes."

I think "Food, Inc." is such an important film, but again, "The Cove" is going to win, according to all questionnaires. I guess dolphins are more appealing than chickens and cows, even if all are doomed.

Christopher Orr, critic and reporter for the New Republic:

I'm arguing that it's awfully hard to imagine the Academy giving best picture to a $12.6 million indie over the Biggest Thing That Ever Happened in the World. Here are the key paragraphs from my recent article for TNR:

The issue is not merely, nor even primarily, that "Avatar" made so much money; it's that "The Hurt Locker" made so little. The all-time lowest-grossing best-picture winner to date (adjusted for inflation) is "Crash," which made $55 million in 2005 -- more than five times "Hurt Locker's" adjusted box office. About half as many people saw Bigelow's picture in its entire theatrical run as saw Cameron's on its opening day. For the Academy to elevate so small a picture over one so big would be wildly out of keeping both with its recent, much-discussed desire to keep the Oscars "relevant" to a mass audience, and with its lifelong prejudice in favor of films that succeed commercially.

To wit: Over the past 20 years, the highest- or second-highest-grossing of the five best-picture nominees has won 19 times. The third-highest-grossing has won once -- in 1999, when "American Beauty's" $130 million box office narrowly trailed "The Green Mile's" $136 million. The fourth- and fifth-highest-grossing nominees have not won a single time in over two decades. Where does "The Hurt Locker" stand in this year's overcrowded field of nominees? No. 8 out of 10. (Thank you, "An Education" and "A Serious Man"!)

Or ponder this: Of the last 30 best-picture winners (beyond which comprehensive data is less easy to come by), 11 were among the top five grossing films of their respective years. Only two ("Crash" and "No Country for Old Men") were outside the top 25, and none were outside the top 50. "The Hurt Locker" was the 131st-highest-grossing film of 2009.

The question, I think, comes down to which will be a better predictor of this year's Oscar race: the behavior of the other awards groups over the past six weeks or so, or the behavior of the Academy itself over its 80-plus years of existence? I dearly hope that Vegas and the Oscarologists are right, but for my part I'm betting on history.

But the essence of everything we secretly love about the Oscars, the essence of everything we not-so-secretly love about movies, the essence of exhilarating philistine vulgarity, can also be found Sunday night, and this time, you can trust your DVR, as you must trust me.

And that essential item would be "The Oscar" -- perhaps the greatest single movie ever made.

Now, I know what you are thinking.

That’s kind of a bold statement, Sparky.

Well, yeah.

But this rarely shown, not-available-on-DVD masterpiece has a hypnotic power and glory that can transform lives, conjure up its own language, and transport you to a land of surrealistic fantasy. Let a writer who has charted that borderland, Neil Gaiman, tell you just one of the reasons why. "'The Oscar,'" says Gaiman, "is the kind of film where enough little things go wrong to produce a film in which something huge goes strangely right -- but in a way that nobody who set out to make the film could ever have wanted."

The original writer of "The Oscar," Gaiman’s close friend Harlan Ellison, attended the 1966 premiere. Ellison recalls: "I practically wept. I saw this film for which I had worked for a year, and people are laughing in the theater and they're laughing at dramatic moments. And I'm sinking lower and lower and lower in my seat. I remember it as if it were yesterday. I said, 'This is the end of my feature film career.'"

Time magazine concurred with Ellison’s assessment, writing that the film "should be shown exclusively in theatres that have doctors and nurses stationed in the lobby to attend viewers who laugh themselves sick." The New York Times castigated "this arrantly cheap, synthetic film, which dumps filth and casts aspersions upon the whole operation of Hollywood -- a community that may not be perfect but is not so foul as hinted here."

Well, we’ll save that last bit for later dissection.

But even with this disastrous reception, the movie still might have managed to pull out of its death spiral, but it had the misfortune of coming out in the exact second that the Old Hollywood it celebrated was expiring. In a way, "The Oscar" was a barge at its own Viking funeral, dead on arrival.

Yet, here I am, staking my nonexistent critical reputation on this film being some kind of masterpiece.

It is.

Some background.

Last week, Der Spiegel published an article documenting the last four minutes of Air France Flight 447, lost at sea on a routine flight from Rio to Paris. This catastrophe was the result of a cascading series of small events that, when added up, created one of the worst manmade disasters in recent memory.

See where I am going here?

"The Oscar" was based on a trashy not-so-bestseller by Richard Sale, documenting the rise and fall of an unscrupulous heel, Frankie Fane. This is one of the few novels I have read that include footnotes, where the ludicrous action above is contextualized, or disclaimed. Somehow, someone thought this book would make a great movie. They were wrong. And in a decision that would forever haunt the Academy, it allowed its name and Oscar’s likeness to be expropriated. The film’s producer, Russell Rouse, and "director," Clarence Green, were now cleared for takeoff.

Then, the system failures began. Casting, story and script for starters. The original cast was to include Steve McQueen, who was just coming of acting age, as the unscrupulous Frankie Fane, with Peter Falk as his long-suffering best friend, muse and whipping boy, Hymie Kelly. Instead, we got Stephen Boyd and Tony Bennett, in his one and only dramatic role.

More on that later.

Next, the script. In 1964, when "The Oscar" was on the runway, Ellison was blazing a reputation as the fastest gun in Hollywood. Using his experience in the pulps, and ferocious talent for both writing and self-promotion, Ellison’s screenwriting potential seemed limitless. Swinging for the fences, he wrote "The Oscar" as if it were the last big studio feature he would ever get a chance to tackle.

He had that part right, at least.

During the writing process, the script was taken out of Ellison’s hands and "improved" by the director and producer, both of whom would ultimately receive screen credit. According to Ellison; "There were three offices at Paramount in a row. I was in a little room with my typewriter and my desk. In between was the foyer, and there were two secretaries there. I would write a page, and I would put them in the out basket on this side of my desk. My secretary would come in, she would take the pages, she would retype it and take it over and put it on the desk of the secretary over there. That secretary would pick it up, take it into Rouse and Green. They would work on it. They would give it back to her. She would retype it, give it to my secretary, who would bring it in to me. And I would see the same page I had just done. I would say, 'I need you like an extra set of elbows.' Which has got a little something to it. And it would come back, 'I need you like a hole in the head.'"

The end result of this hijacking is one for the ages.

Here are only few of the film's embarrassment of verbal riches, a jumbled remix if you will.

First off, "The Oscar" has its own private lexicon, its secret language. Not content to call hitchhiking, well, hitchhiking, it is called here "busting thumb." "Fat honey-dripper" or "soft in the gourd" is a term of apparent disparagement. "Birdseed," an expletive. People don’t just endure stress in "Oscar"-speak; they have "thrombos," a phrase later expropriated by Austin Powers. They don’t flatter, they "spread the pollen around." And "like a junkie shooting pure quicksilver" into our veins, this "Oscar"-speak eventually transforms into actual dialogue.

And what dialogue!

What’s not to like about using the line "You lie down with pigs, you come up smelling like garbage!" not once, not twice, but three times? And there is so much more. In a bedroom argument with Frankie, German then-bombshell Elke Sommer delivers the following gem almost phonetically: "You should put that speech on tape, It’s gotten to be a fireproof, gold-plated, diamond-encrusted excuse for never talking to me."

Frankie, or as Hymie refers to him, "Snarly Fane, the boy-faced dog!" has weighed in earlier. "You free-thinkers confuse me. Put a little chlorophyll in the conversation!" Over to Elke. "Take one from column A and two from column B, you get an egg roll either way. I am the end result of everything I've ever learned, all I ever hope to be, and all the experiences I've ever had." Frankie has had enough. "Will you stop beating on my ears! I’ve had it up to here with all this bring-down! I’m me! If you don’t like what you see, then change the scenery!" And of course, there is Hymie, watching it all go down to the wire. "You finally made it, Frankie! Oscar night! And here you sit, on top of a glass mountain called Success. Ever think about it? I do, friend Frankie, I do..."

And in conclusion, Hymie puts it best. "Man, what a scene," he notes. "Forget it!"

If only we could.

There is a very thin line between Clifford Odets' script for "The Sweet Smell of Success" and Ellison’s for "The Oscar." But one had a producer who knew how to cast (himself, in Burt Lancaster’s case) and a director who knew how to actually, well, direct. "Oscar" director Clarence Green clearly knew only one word.

"More."

And more is what you get.

It is one thing to read dialogue like the above, but to hear it, see it, live it in a garish, grossly overlit cheesily decorated set, with every verbal crescendo matched by Percy Faith’s melodramatic score, with a "who’s who" cast of cameos, many of them Oscar winners, is a kind of cinematic satori. And then, there is the rest of the cast, from Ernest Borgnine to Jill St. John to Peter Lawford to Walter Brennan to Joseph Cotten to Broderick Crawford to Hedda Hopper (!!) and Edith Head (!!!), all dialed to 11 on the performance scale. The written word, even in "Oscar"-speak, can only go so far.

Imagine if Beethoven's "Ode to Joy" were played, not as a climax, but 73 straight times. That would be "The Oscar." Just about every scene is a shrieking climax, with every available piece of scenery chewed and spit out with insane commitment. And that commitment is the key to the enterprise. It is clear that everyone felt they were making a masterpiece. From Ellison, who crafted every single line as a "too smart" bomb for maximum dramatic impact, to the feral Stephen Boyd, who seems to be having a thrombo in every single scene, to poor Tony Bennett, who bears a striking resemblance to an incontinent basset hound, everybody brought his or her A game. And when the most restrained and dignified performance in a movie is by Milton Berle, you can be assured that you are in the presence of something that seriously warps the space-time continuum.

Despite its criminal non-issue on DVD, "The Oscar" lives on. Years ago, SCTV brilliantly parodied the film in a sketch called "The Nobel," where Dave Thomas possessed the soul of Stephen Boyd possessing Frankie Fane. But the real thing is beyond parody. One anonymous commentator wrote on "The Oscar's" IMDb site that Boyd’s performance is what would happen "if one of the 'Thunderbirds' marionettes had been cast in 'Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?' His body language is quite like some poor puppet being randomly jerked around while the puppeteer tries to shake off LSD-conjured spiders."

Uh, precisely.

As another, less anonymous commentator wrote, "Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go."

T.S. Eliot said that.

"You’re making my head hurt with all that poetry!"

Frankie Fane said that. Game. Set.

Match.

What makes "The Oscar" so mesmerizing is the consistency of its deranged vision. All its monumental problems and excesses somehow lead to a critical mass that defies all criticism. If it were any better, it wouldn’t be nearly as great. Like Hitchcock’s "Vertigo," it conjures up its own reality, and somehow, the insane parts make the whole less of a movie, and more of an immersive experience. James Cameron’s Pandora has nothing on Frankie Fane’s Hollywood. Neil Gaiman began watching "The Oscar" by himself but was soon overwhelmed. He had to bring some friends in to complete the journey. Which, of course, is why TCM’s showing Sunday night should make the perfect Oscar party.

Consider yourself warned.

At the same time this Viking barge burned down to the waterline, taking professional reputations with it, the film’s executive producer, Joseph E. Levine, prepared his next project. Levine had optioned another minor 1960s novel, also set in Los Angeles.

Only this time, everything went right, with the script, director and cast aligning perfectly.

Still, especially on Oscar night in Hollywood, I’ll gladly take Snarly Fane, the boy-faced dog, over Dustin Hoffman’s "Graduate."

"If you’re looking for a bruise," Broderick Crawford’s venal sheriff blusters to Hymie and Frankie, "keep scratching!"

If you’re looking for a cinematic revelation, well, you now know where to itch.

You’ve heard the lecture, now, experience the lab. "The Oscar" will get a rare public showing on TCM this Sunday night (8 p.m. EST). What is your favorite "Oscar"-speak moment or line? Come Monday morning, I’ll be waiting to hear from you "honey-drippers" in the comments section.

Remember, you do not judge "The Oscar."

It judges you.

[UPDATE: Two minor factual errors have now been corrected, thanks to readers. I originally referred to producer Russell Rouse as "Richard," and misidentified actress Elke Sommer as Swedish.]

But would she? It's a tantalizing face-off: George Clooney vs. Meryl Streep, Christoph Waltz vs. Anna Kendrick. Salon asked film critics and notable film buffs what they thought of such an awards twist, and whom they'd pick in a mixed-gender Oscar race. 

Dan Kois, freelance critic and author of "Facing Future":

I would give the Oscar for best lead performance to Meryl Streep for "Julie & Julia." If actor, actress and the supporting divisions were all combined, I would give the Oscar to Christoph Waltz of "Inglourious Basterds." And if all the categories were combined into one massive best anything award, I would give the Oscar to Janet Patterson for "Bright Star's" costume design. 

Molly Haskell , film critic and author of "Frankly, My Dear: Gone With the Wind Revisited":

I hope the academy has the sense to ignore this suggestion. It's hard enough settling on a winner when you're comparing actors among their own sex; to go beyond that simply widens the field hopelessly, opens up an apples-and-oranges multitude of standards for comparison. Separating actors by gender may not be as "essential" as it is for athletes, but it's a highly useful way of organizing wildly idiosyncratic and dissimilar talents into categories of competition.

I'd actually pick an actor not nominated (Matt Damon from "The Informant!"). If I have to choose from those nominated, I'll go with Helen Mirren in "The Last Station" and Woody Harrelson in "The Messenger." But this is too painful.

Eric Kohn, freelance film critic and journalist:

I think Jeff Bridges and Christoph Waltz. Granted, on a superficial level, these are performances entirely defined by the masculinity of the actors -- just as Mo'Nique's performance is defined by her expression of feminine fragility. But they are simultaneously free of gender boundaries because the roles are so closely related to the power of the performers, rather than the fact that they happen to be men.

I'm not saying that the Jew Hunter could've been played by a woman, but Waltz's unique combination of creepiness and comedic timing has nothing to do with his gender. And I would say the same thing applies to Daniels, with his sad eyes and grumpy expressions throughout "Crazy Heart."

Vadim Rizov, contributor to Sight and Sound and the Village Voice:

I'm sure Jeff Bridges is magnificent, but he always is, so I'm not opposed to giving him a de facto lifetime achievement award. Out of what's left, I guess I'd go with George Clooney ("Up in the Air"), whom people keep underestimating as just a facile charmer.

For supporting, Anna Kendrick ("Up in the Air") in a walk. Christoph Waltz is indeed very cool, but it's kind of hard to judge what he's doing, because essentially his ability to speak multiple languages flawlessly is blowing everyone away. To me he's not necessarily the most memorable part of the film. Mo'Nique is being given a lot of credit for not sucking, but her performance is textbook Oscar bait in a terrible movie; if not for her background, she'd be getting called out on it right now. What I really like about Kendrick is that she's an instinctual comedian who, I suspect, is basically a dramatic actress at heart; her timing and poise are remarkable. And I'd date her in a heartbeat given the chance.

Erik Nelson, director of the Harlan Ellison documentary "Dreams With Sharp Teeth":

No matter what the genderification, I would pick Jeff Bridges for best actor/ess. Not, of course, for his rote performance in "Crazy Heart," but for his performance in "The Fisher King" and "Cutter's Way." There is no statute of limitations on art, nor awarding same.

For supporting actor/ess, attention must be paid to Christoph Waltz for the coveted best Nazi in a movie slot. Previous winners of the coveted Golden Swastika include Conrad Veidt ("Casablanca:), Sig Ruman ("To Be or Not to Be"), Otto Preminger ("Stalag 17") and, of course, Erich Von Stroheim ("Five Graves To Cairo").

Chris Orr, senior editor at the New Republic:

It's an interesting thought experiment -- especially this year, when I have overwhelming favorites in all four categories: Waltz and Mo'Nique (like everyone else who went to a movie last year) in the supporting categories; Streep and Firth in the leads.

So, Waltz vs. Mo'Nique? Not a painless call, but I give it to Waltz for the surprise and variety of the performance: the charm, the menace, the wit, the remarkable shifts between understated and over-the-top.

Streep and Firth are a tougher call, because the performances are revelatory in such different ways. Firth imbues an underwritten role with extraordinary depth, balancing pathos and magnetism with such quiet elegance. But -- and this one does hurt -- I think I'd go with Streep, for the wittiest, most appealing performance of her storied career. There are two ways an actor can go when playing a modern figure with well-known mannerisms. The easy one is to mimic the surface, à la Cate Blanchett's wildly overpraised Katharine Hepburn impersonation in "The Aviator," which merely reflected back at us the celebrity we already knew. The harder way is to ignore the surface and work from the inside out, as Christopher Plummer did in his comparably underpraised turn as Mike Wallace in "The Insider." In "Julie & Julia," Streep somehow manages to do both at once, capturing the goofy, oversize Julia Child idiosyncrasies familiar to anyone who had a television in the 1970s, while also enriching and humanizing that distant but uniquely familiar figure

Mary Elizabeth Williams , film writer for Salon:

My two favorite performances happened to be so incredibly wrapped up in gender identity -- Carey Mulligan in "An Education" and Jeremy Renner in "The Hurt Locker." You can't just play a character -- you're playing a man or woman. If there were a great gender-neutral performance, though, I'd give it to Sharlto Copley for "District 9," as an office drudge dragged into an incredibly complex and deeply human family drama. He was fierce, protective and heartbreaking, in a role that I think would have been equally effective with a strong male or female. But if I had to choose nominated people from the two categories? Carey Mulligan for lead and Woody Harrelson for supporting. 

Melissa Silverstein , media consultant and writer for Women & Hollywood:

Mo'Nique for best supporting performer, because she transcended what a lot of people expected. For best performance, I pick Jeremy Renner. What he did in that part is extraordinary.

But the academy would never go for the gender-neutral Oscar. One of the most interesting parts of the evening is getting to see so many different people wearing so many different clothes. You wouldn't see the beautiful dresses. Imagine! Heads would explode in Hollywood if there were fewer women and men to dress, fewer women to see. It's an economic issue. Plus, when you decrease opportunities, you decrease opportunities for women. I'm not going to fool myself into thinking women would still get the same proportion of nominations if they eliminated the best actress category. 

Bob Calhoun, Open Salon contributor and author of "Beer, Blood, and Cornmeal: Seven Years of Incredibly Strange Wrestling":

I really think that it's Jeff Bridges' year to get one of those best actor statues for an entire outstanding career. But all bets would be off if he had to face Gabourey Sidibe of "Precious." Bridges can take Clooney easy. Hell, he can even take Carey Mulligan of "An Education" without breaking a sweat. Everyone voting will know that they'll probably have many more chances to award Mulligan with a statue over the next decade or two. But when it comes down to Bridges against Sidibe, I have to lean slightly toward the latter.

As for the supporting actor category, Mo'Nique lays waste to them all. Maybe Woody Harrelson's performance in "The Messenger" stacks up against hers in "Precious," but the Academy voters have mostly forgotten about that movie. Christoph Waltz seems to be a critics' choice in the male actor category for actually finding a new way to play a coldblooded Nazi in "Inglourious Basterds," but when up against Mo'Nique, she'd just smack his Waffen SS ass with a frying pan.

Jonathan Kiefer, film critic for the Faster Times:

Given the crop of actual nominees -- it's still a tough call -- my choice for best performer would be Colin Firth for his exemplary craftsmanship. I thought "A Single Man" was flawed on a few important levels, and one of them was that it would be nothing without him. Such subtlety and finesse, such awareness -- not just of a given scene's exact intentions but also of the camera's proximity. He has a great touch. My choice for best supporting performer would be Mo'Nique for her clarity and total commitment. Yes, there's bravery there, for inhabiting such a repulsive person, but it seems condescending to congratulate her for that. It's more than brave. It's the scale of the life that she brings to the part, a Shakespearean grandeur.