The Oscars Don’t Matter & Are No Longer Relevant And You Should Stop Caring About Them, Too

I watched the Oscars this year with the same sense of irony and agony that I do every year. It’s torturous to me because, much like Neil Patrick Harris, I love movies. I still do, even though I work in the industry now on its lowest, and least respected, rung. It should have beaten me, but it doesn’t, and it likely never will, because when a movie is very good, it’s inevitably a triumph of personal vision and teamwork in a way that has nothing to do with its draconian and graft-riddled delivery system. Thankfully, I can separate the two quite nicely and hold a seemingly hypocritical concept in my head that while I hate Disney Studios and always have and always will, I can love Toy Story, The Incredibles, Pirates of the Caribbean, and Fantasia without missing a beat.

But I digress. I watched, too, the fallout from this year’s Oscars: someone always hates the host and thinks they did the worst job ever; someone complains loudly that the movie they wanted to win best picture didn’t win; someone always mocks the whole process, from the dresses some women wore to the lack of diversity, or lack of equality, or lack of whatever this year’s hashtag activism would have us tsking about. Usually, these articles can all be found on Slate.com (I kid, I kid...mostly).

Even if I agree with the general consensus that, for example, Birdman shouldn’t have won Best Picture over something like Boyhood, I’ve stopped feeling real emotion over it. Sure, my predictions this year were in the toilet—they always are. I tend to be very egalitarian with my choices, much as if I were actually voting. I won’t heap every award on the flavor of the month. Instead, I ask myself what best fit each category and let the chips fall. Example: is there anyone in the room who didn’t think Birdman would win for Best Cinematography? Right, didn’t think so. But in the category of Best Picture (read it as “Best Production,” and remember it’s the producers who come up to take the award), Boyhood was robbed. That production was 12 years long, and never looks patchwork or disjointed. Linklater filmed several movies in between doing Boyhood, and each time he came back to it, he had to pick up where he left off. On screen, it’s a very subtle magic trick, and he should have been rewarded for it.

But the voting body instead chose to recognize a movie that spoke to them on a very personal level: a movie about ego, fear of failure, lack of relevancy, fantasy, and the perils of fame. In other words, they chose to recognize themselves. And why not? It’s their award show, right? I mean, did you get to vote? No, that’s the People’s Choice Awards, not the Oscars. And the foreign press award? Nice, but well...no, it’s the award given to you by your peers that matters the most. It’s the grudging respect that you earned, if not the outright “Screw you, man,” from your fellow actors and actresses. That’s the award you savor.

Make no mistake, here: the Oscars have ceased to be relevant to American Culture, and will probably never be relevant again. Oh, they used to be, a long time ago, back when the studios were in charge of everything. They made the Oscars a big deal through canny promotion, lots of glamor, high fashion, and pageantry. Also, remember this was back in the day when newspapers, magazines, and radio ruled the roost. TV was in its infancy. The message was carefully controlled. There was an aura of mystery about the whole thing. Those images of stars walking the red carpet was one of the few pictures you’d see of them outside of their film roles. And, also, there were fewer movies, fewer categories, and less competition all around. It wasn’t perfect, and I’m not saying it was, but that’s the myth that the modern Academy Awards have been trading on for years: the glamor of Hollywood.

Talk about a fairy tale. Twitter and 4Chan have replaced newspapers and magazines. Memes are generated faster than they can be absorbed. Scandals break in seconds, are over in minutes, and linger for days, like when you overcook fish in your house. We see these people All the Bloody Time, thanks to the Internet, the Talk Show circuit, and whatever else they may have going on that has sucked up bandwidth for the day.

This is just one of the memes that was
generated about John Travolta. Again.

This is the world in which the modern Oscars exist, and it’s poisoned the well completely. Here’s why: Hollywood reads tweets. They scour blogs. They say they don’t, but someone in the organization does. When we as a people are displeased with them, they hear it loud and clear. Granted, they hear it much in the same way that the Plebeians shouted at Nero that he was overdoing it, but they DO hear it. And it totally influences what they do, even if they say it doesn’t.  That’s where the opening monologue and other material comes from these days. Gone are the Billy Crystal song and dance numbers where he does a Mad Magazine style summary of the movies nominated for best picture. Just about everything out of N.P.H.’s mouth was a wink and a nod, if not an outright apology to, all of the criticisms levied on the ceremony from social media.

This is how they used to do the Oscars. Ballots would go out to all of the voting members, and they would check of their picks in every category. They send them back. Someone, probably Price Waterhouse, tallies them up and from that aggregate list they take the top several in every category and that’s the nominations list. That list went public, and while the boys in Vegas set to making odds on who would win, the voting members would again choose their favorite—or maybe they’d switch it up, depending on who they just talked to at the country club or the studio—and the votes would go back to Price Waterhouse and the winner would be announced on Oscar Night and everyone would clap and cheer and there you go. The next day, around the water cooler, the women would discuss who had the best dresses and married couples would vow that if the best picture winner, which they missed when it was in the theaters because of the family vacation, ever came to television, that they would definitely watch it. Sometimes, there would be a gross mistake, a whoops, that the voting body would correct next year.  These were usually pointed out in articles written by syndicated columnists like Gene Siskal or Roger Ebert, taking a break from reviewing movies to express an opinion on what went wrong that year. And sometimes it would be a good enough argument that there would be a kind of discussion about it, and it might get filtered back to Hollywood, and appropriate steps would be taken. Maybe it would be in the form of a Lifetime Achievement award next year, or maybe it would be to vote in this year's snubbed actor for his next performance, which was nowhere as good or as meaningful as the movie he was in last year, but anyway, here’s your statue.

This is how they do the Oscars now. Ballots would go out to all of the voting members, and they would check of their picks in every category. They send them back. Someone, probably Price Waterhouse, tallies them up and from that aggregate list they take the top several in every category and that’s the nominations list. They make a big point about releasing the nominees in an early morning (for them, remember, the West Coast is three hours behind New York) press conference, and while the boys in Vegas set to making odds on who would win, the Internet explodes with faux outrage and disbelief that, ONCE AGAIN, there’s no movies about people of color in the Best Picture category, or that they CAN’T BELIEVE that this geek-nation favorite didn’t get nominated for every single award, or that So-and-So was good in that movie, but certainly not Best Supporting Actor Good in that movie, and so on, and so on.  The 24-hour news machine and every late night talk show ramp up the usual jokes, and the list is sifted over with a fine-toothed comb, analyzing it in every direction as if a subjective choice made by spoiled millionaires actually means something about our society at large. Oh, and every one of those spoiled millionaires sees and reads those comments, because they can’t help but look.

Now the final ballots come back to the voting members would again choose their favorite—and now they’ve most assuredly switched it up, depending on what the temperature of Twitter is at the moment. Then again, maybe they don’t; there are a few of them who no doubt double down, vowing not to be influenced by a bunch of screaming 20-somethings on social media. Those votes would go back to Price Waterhouse and the winner is announced on Oscar Night and while everyone is clapping and cheering, the Internet is exploding with more fake rage or praise, depending on what cause was name-checked in the acceptance speech. The next day, the Internet is full of how stupid the Oscars are and how horrible that dress looked, and every gay man under the age of fifty and teenage girl under the age of twenty has logged in to snark at the singing or the musical number (well, maybe not this year), and Hollywood in general gets sullen and angry and closes ranks for a couple of weeks and tells itself that it doesn’t matter what people in Kansas and Arkansas think about them because THEY are the taste-makers, not the city commission of Little Rock.

And we wonder why they’re in a bubble.

I won’t go so far as to suggest that the Oscars are tainted, because that’s giving The Internet and the New Media Machine too much credit, but I will suggest that because of the Internet and the New Media Machine, they can go back to being a private local award, given out to members of the club, and we don’t have to care about them the way we used to. Old Hollywood is gone. We’re saturated with stars and celebrities in a way that is frankly suffocating. And really, how many of you are using the Oscars to determine your Netflix cue these days? You know after opening weekend if it’s a movie you want to see. Your friends have cross-posted interesting blog articles about the film, or written thoughtful critiques on FaceBook. You don’t need the Oscars for anything, except maybe to dictate your choice of classic films before 1970. The Best Picture list (and its nominees) are still a pretty good barometer for those.

But now? With Rotten Tomatoes in place? Pfft. Forget it. You don’t agree with the winners most of the time, anyway. For a lot of us, the Oscars are a backboard to slam against, a whetstone for our wit, and not any kind of standard for excellence. This is sad, because that’s what the awards were meant to be in the first place.

The best barometer for what movies will stand the test of time is, in fact, time itself. For every injustice heaped upon films at the Oscars, the passage of years (and film studies classes around the world) has a way of evening out the score for us.  Let’s look at a classic example from the 1980s.

Exhibit A—Best Picture Category, 1981

Here are the nominees:

Chariots of Fire

Atlantic City

On Golden Pond

Reds

Raiders of the Lost Ark

(I’m not including a hyperlink for Raiders of the Lost Ark because if you need to know what that movie is about, I want you to stop reading this blog and don’t come back until you’ve watched the movie. I’m serious. If this is you, go. Go now. I ain’t playing.)

And the winner was...Chariots of Fire.

I’ll let that sink in.

Now, regarding Chariots of Fire, On Golden Pond, and Reds, these are the kinds of movies you see all the time at the Academy Awards. Thoughtful movies, compelling dramas, great actors and directors... and so, if they are all so great, how many of them have you actually seen? Most Gen X-ers and Baby Boomers have likely seen three or four of them. But there’s one movie that we’ve all seen, and it sure as hell ain’t Chariots of Fire. If you know anything about Chariots of Fire, you know the song in the movie was re-used in National Lampoon's Vacation when Clark and Rusty are running in slow motion up to the gates of Wally World. That's it. That's the sum total of Chariots of Fire's contribution to your life. And that lampoon tells you everything you need to know about Chariots of Fire. It's about running in slow motion. 

But them’s the breaks.

It happened before, as well: Annie Hall beat Star Wars in 1977. My Fair Lady beat Dr. Strangelove in 1964. The Best Years of Our Lives trumped It’s a Wonderful Life in 1946. And we know it’s happened since then. It happens a lot.

The whole list is here, thoughtfully hyperlinked, for your perusal: Academy Award for Best Picture. Go for it. See how much of a film buff you are. Or, better yet, if you’re not a film buff, see how many movies in that category you’ve actually seen since, oh, I don’t know, 1994. That was Pulp Fiction’s year to lose. Start there and go forward. Whether you agree or disagree with the winners, how much of your personal taste is reflected in the nominees?

So, that’s it. I don’t need these awards anymore. They don’t matter to me like they used to. I still enjoy the movies, and I love seeing good ones and turning people on to films they’ve never seen before, and watching the light come on in people’s eyes when they talk about their favorite movie. And as much as Hollywood seems to want to involve me in the process, it’s really through a three inch thick pane of safety glass. They are in the bubble, and it’s a closed feedback loop. They hunker down over the Internet like an oracle and try to discern what the masses are revolting about, and for 90% of it (or more), I just don’t care. All I want is for people to do their best work and make an interesting story that’s well written and well acted. If it’s a giant spectacle, that’s cool. If it’s a quiet character piece, I like that, too. And if something I like is something that everyone else likes, too, then that’s okay with me. But I’ve never really watched movies based on what other people say I should watch, and neither should you.

My challenge to you is this: Next year, skip the Oscars altogether and just rewatch Raiders of the Lost Ark. I promise you, it’ll be more fun than the whole awards ceremony. Any highlights you miss will be streaming the next day, and you can catch the ten meaningful minutes of the three hour show and be just as caught up as the rest of the world.

Work in Progress 2: Replacement Gorilla

Author's note: This is part of my novel-in-progress, Replacement Gorilla. Currently about halfway through, at sitting at 25K words. I'm really having a ball with this story. Finally. It took a while to find the voice. And the plot. And all of it. There's such a thing as being too close to the subject matter.

The Plainclothes cop was called detective Cliff Pittman. And he gave me shit for my stage name. The photographer was called Detective John Sullivan. Cliff and Sully. They set me down in a dark room, metal table, wooden chair, and one light bulb. It smelled of piss and blood. I wasn’t handcuffed, which was small comfort. I’d heard from some of the rowdier day players all about the quality and thoroughness of the L.A. police department’s beatings. They were legendary in their attention to detail. I’ve never been more thankful for three beers in my life.

Pittman did most of the talking, while Sully stood behind him, just out of the range of the light bulb. A pale Irish shadow with his arms folded in front of him, offering the occasional observation. It was a well-rehearsed routine, and they sold it, brother.

“Starsky, we talked to the front office about you,” Pittman said. “You do day-player work, stunt work, and now you’re playing the gorilla.”

“We covered this already,” I said.

“Humor us,” said Sullivan.

“That’s some pretty specific work you’re doing. Playing the monkey, I mean.” Pittman said. “There can’t be too much call for that, even at shithole studios like Intrepid.”

“Well, somebody’s got to play the cop in this picture,” I said, pronouncing it just like McAuley did.

I’ll give Pittman credit for one thing: he didn’t telegraph his punch. It shot straight out from his waist and caught me on the bridge of my nose. If he didn’t break it, it sure as hell wasn’t from a lack of effort on his part. I could smell the blood and taste it and I shot up out of my chair to return the favor. Sullivan was in front of me before I could adjust my trajectory and I ran into him at full force. He just grabbed me by the arms and pushed me back in the chair.

“I don’t think you wanna do that, Starsky,” he said, pinning me in place until I stopped struggling.

“Call me Clay. We’re all friends, here.”

Sullivan turned to his partner. “He’s got brass balls, I’ll say that for him.”

“I ain’t impressed,” Pittman said. “And the longer he dances with me, the more pissed off I’m gonna get.”

Sullivan backed up against the wall, refolding his arms. “Yeah, Clay, maybe you’d better just answer the questions, huh?”
     “I’m waiting for you two to ask me one,” I said, wiping my nose. It wasn’t broken, but it was bloody as hell. I went for my handkerchief before I remembered I gave it to Louise.

Sullivan tossed me a cheap replacement. Pittman let me clean up for a minute and then said, “Okay, tough guy, where were you on June the third?”

I really had to think about it for a minute. I counted backwards to remember. “Wednesday night. I went to Rudy’s with the guys.”

“The guys,” said Pittman. “Like who, for instance?”

“Joe Wilcox, and some of the other guys from Jungle Jones. We started shooting on Monday, and we were blowing off steam.”

“How long were you there?” Pittman asked.

I puffed out my cheeks. “Well, let’s see...”

“Come on, Starsky, quit stalling,” Pittman barked.
     “Didja close the place down?” prompted Sullivan.

“Yeah, we all left there after two in the morning. Steve kicked us out.”

“See, Cliff?” said Sullivan. “They all got the same story.”

“Yeah, Wilcox told us the same thing,” Pittman groused.

“Is that a bad thing?” I said. “Ernie was respected. He was one of us. We were all sick about what happened.”

“Not so broken up that you didn’t touch his widow to buy the suit, eh?” Sullivan said.

I nodded. “Yeah, I wanted to break into doing what Ernie did. But I think stabbing a guy to get the job is a little much, even for Hollywood.”

“How’d you know he was stabbed?” said Pittman.

“Remember, Cliff? Clay was the guy lurking up the rafters,” Sullivan said.

“Oh, right.” Pittman snapped his fingers. “Hey, Sully, you remember how he came down the ladder when we caught him? He just slid down on his own steam.”

“Neat trick,” said Sullivan.

“Takes strength,” said Pittman.

“It sure does,” said Sullivan.

“What do you mean by that?” I asked.

“Only this,” said Pittman, leaning in. “You could’ve given your pals the slip and drove back to the studio, and decided to take Ernie out on your own, then drove back and slipped in while everyone was in their cups, and no one would be any wiser.”

“That’s nuts,” I said.

“Not really,” said Sullivan. “You got motive. You got means. And this would be opportunity.”

I looked at both of them, incredulous. They were deadly serious. Pittman’s punch had knocked most of the beer out of me, but their demeanor scared the rest of it right out of me.  I swallowed and tried to be as sincere as I could.

“You guys still hang murderers here?” I asked.

“Yep, for now,” said Pittman.

“Maybe the gas chamber, if the politicos have their way,” said Sullivan.

“Okay,” I said. “I want to tell you guys a couple of things. I get paid twenty-five bucks a day for stunt work. If I’m wearing the suit, I get paid double that. Fifty bucks a day. That costume weighs sixty-five pounds when it’s dry, and about eighty pounds when I’m sweating. I can’t be in it for more than a few minutes, or I can pass out, or worse.”

“What do you want from us?” growled Pittman. “No one’s making you do it.”

“Let me finish,” I said. “If you want to make any money as a gorilla man, you gotta hustle. Two or three jobs a week, if you’re lucky. You need your own suit. There’s only a few guys and they all have their own suit. I’m buying Ernie’s on an installment plan. And now, I’ve also paying the head of wardrobe a fiver on every job to keep the suit in working order.” I took a breath. “I thought this would be a fun way to make some extra bucks, but now I’m thinking twice about the whole goddamn thing. Now I ask you guys: does that sound like I’ve got a motive to kill the King of the Gorilla Men?”

Sullivan cleared his throat. Pittman turned away and they exchanged a few looks that I couldn’t read. When Pittman turned back to me, he was smirking. “Okay, Starsky, you may not know who did it, but I ain’t convinced that you don’t know something about who did. Alla you Hollywood types are very close.”

“Is that a crack?” I asked. “Coming from the guy making goo-goo eyes at his partner just now? When are you two gonna tie the knot?”

Pittman’s smile broke. He stepped aside, muttering, “And we were getting along so well, too.” Sullivan was right behind him.

Sullivan hit a lot harder that Pittman. A lot.

Work In Progress: Replacement Gorilla

This is literally just a sliver from Chapter One. I'm in the middle of Chapter Seven now. If you like this, and want to see more, just let me know in the usual manner. Hope you dig this little peek. -Mark

 

Joe walked off, leaving me and his curiosity to stare at the stage and wonder what they were doing over there. When Joe didn’t immediately return, I looked around until I found the scaffolding that led up to the rafters. I shouldered my duffel and nonchalantly walked over to the metal rungs, then scaled them quickly and disappeared from under the bright lights.

Up above, on the narrow boards that ran parallel to the banks of lights, I felt a lot more comfortable. I was doing something physical. That always made more sense to me. All of the ropes, pulleys, and flats could be operated from the small platform anchored to the wall underneath the scaffolding. Two catwalks ran across the stage, out of the view of the cameras, and allowed various creatures to fly and other special effects to be performed. On the opposite side of the stage, several thick ropes had been decorated with wire, leaves, and paint to resemble jungle vines. These were anchored overhead to a second set of beams, and counterbalanced with sandbags. Stuntmen could swing onto the soundstage and land precisely on their mark. Down below, it was easy to see the rows of fake plants and trees held in place with two-by-fours, terracotta pots, and piles of sand.      

 I shifted my duffel bag to my back and carefully walked onto the closest catwalk, using the railing for support, until I had an unobstructed view of the crime scene below. I leaned down cautiously to get an unobstructed look.

Ernie Fleischman was flat on his back. Mouth open, staring up at me, a panicked look in his eyes, which were still ringed with black greasepaint. It took me a minute to see the cause of his death: a knife, one of the props, from the look of it, was buried to the hilt under his ribcage. His body was surrounded by a chalk outline, and other things were circled in chalk that I couldn’t quite make out.

The cop that had been arguing with McAuley now appeared and said to the photographer, “How do you figure it?”

The photographer wore a similar brown suit and jacket as the cop. He put his camera down and said, “Okay, here’s what I think.” He walked stage right about six feet and pointed to the open trap door in the middle of the stage. “The killer waited until he heard the deceased coming, then jumped out...” here he pointed, to the raised platform below the trap door, “from here, and stabbed him. You can see from the angle that the handle is pointing down, the blade turning up into the ribcage.” The cop stood up and pointed stage left. “Then he ran off that way, down the stairs. There’s a service entrance that leads out back.”

“Any ideas as to who could have done it?” asked the plainclothes cop.

“Well, whoever he was, he was strong as an ox.”

“Athletic, too. He’d have to spring up from the platform, there, and drive it home in one motion.”

“Jesus Christ, it’s hot.” said the plainclothes cop. He took his hat off and mopped his brow, rolled his head back, and his eyes met mine. “Hey! Get down from there!”

I stood up hurriedly, walked to the opposite end of the catwalk, and slid down the ladder in one fluid motion. I was met by the two cops.

“Who are you?” the plainclothes cop asked.

“Clayton Stark,” I said.

“Phony name,” said the photographer. “These guys don’t have real names. What’s your real name, buddy?”

“Creighton Starsky,” I said.

“Let me see some ID,” Plainclothes snapped.

I handed over my driver’s license as the Photographer asked, “Did you know the deceased?”

“Yes,” I said. “I mean, no...I mean...”

“Jesus Christ, make up your mind,” said Plainclothes. “Did you know him or not?”

“I met him once, at a party. I knew who he was, but I didn’t...” I stopped when I realized what I was about to say.

Plainclothes smiled. “Well, who said you did, Starsky?”

“No one,” I said.

Photographer was suddenly all smiles, too. “What were you doing up there, Starsky?”

“Nothing. Just looking around.”

“You working on this picture?” Plainclothes asked.

I nodded.

“What are you doing?” Photographer asked.

“I’m playing the gorilla,” I said.

The cops smile now looked like a shark’s mouth. “Did you know that the deceased, Mr. Fleischman, was playing the gorilla in this movie?” Plainclothes said.

“Before he died,” said Photographer.

“Yeah, but now that he’s dead, Clayton here’s got a job,” said Plainclothes.

“Ain’t that swell?” said Photographer.

“It’s convenient,” said Plainclothes.

“Like a coincidence,” said Photographer.

Joe suddenly appeared at my side. “Hey, Clay, what’s going on?”

“Your friend here was up in the rafters, gawking at us,” said Plainclothes, “After I specifically asked you circus types to stay back and let us work the crime scene.”

“We were just asking the snoop here a few questions,” said Photographer, “And we’ll probably be asking him some more.”

“Real soon,” said Plainclothes.

Joe drew himself up. He was legitimately tall, not just Hollywood tall. It had the desired effect. “Don’t get tough with me, buddy. I get hit for a living. You got any questions, you go through the front office like the rest of the fans. Come on, Clay.” He pulled me away from the two cops.

“Hey Starsky, you got an alibi for last night?” Plainclothes yelled.

“Let him go,” said Photographer. “He’s a simpleton.”

After we had walked half the length of the studio floor, Joe hissed, “What the hell were you doing up there?”

I just shrugged. I wanted to tell Joe that I wanted to see Ernie’s dead body, just to know that he was truly gone, but I knew how it would sound, so I kept my mouth shut.

This is Why We Fail: SharkNado, Schadenfreude, and Schlock

There are no words. There just aren't.

I did NOT want to watch SharkNado. I didn't. I barely glanced at it when the blurb hit FaceBook. I saw a picture of a CGI shark, inside of a CGI tornado, and weirdly, was able to put the entire movie together in my head in the span of a nanosecond.

But then, Wil Wheaton started tweeting his excitement. I noticed he wasn't the only one. Many of my friends, professionals in their industries, and known for having a modicum of taste and common sense, were enthusiastic--nay, giddy, about watching the movie. I looked again. Yes, it was a "SyFy Original," which is code for, "we spent no money, time, or effort on this movie."

I've long had a problem with SF fans who insist on watching everything that the SyFy channel pumps out (or for that matter, any of the big network channels) that has even a whisper of science fiction and/or fantasy elements to it. "We have to watch," they tell themselves and others. "If we don't, then Hollywood will never, ever make another science fiction television show for as long as it lives, and we'll have nothing to watch, then." And oh, the gymnastics they go through to try and convince themselves to keep watching the show. "Well, see, the first season, all twenty-four hour-long episodes of it, is pretty much just the set-up for the premise. It doesn't start to get good until the second season, about mid-way through. But in the third season, that's when the show takes off! Of course, they cancelled it after the third season, so you have to read what happens next on the website. But the next hit show that SyFy vomits out...that'll be the good one!" Yeah, right.

I am apparently the only person who is bothered by a television network called "SyFy" that consistently produces the worst kinds of shows in the name of Sci-Fi, or SF, or whatever we've decided to call it this week. It's garbage, all of it. From the reality shows, to the ghost-hunting shows, to the original series, to the special "movie events...like, um, well, SharkNado."

There's this production company in Los Angeles called The Asylum that produces these made-for-tv monstrosities. They also produce direct to video movies that are specifically designed to trick the unwary into picking up their movie instead of the actual film they were looking for. Here's a good example of what I'm talking about.


Here's the poster (and presumably the DVD box cover) for Paranormal Activity, a mega-hit that was made for $15,000 dollars. It was widely seen and most people who like that sort of thing really liked it.








Here is the poster for The Asylum's Paranormal Entity. It very likely had the same budget as Paranormal Activity, and was only seen by the people who foolishly went into Hollywood Video, glanced at the cover, and then snatched it up and screamed, "Hey, Enid! Here's that Paranomal movie you was wantin' to see. You wanna get it tonight?"




This is the kind of stuff they do, on purpose, all of the time.

Of course, there's a rich history of production companies that latch onto the success of their peers like a remora and feeds on that bigger, better company's ideas. The television career of producer Glen A. Larson comes to mind (we used to call him "Glen Larsony"). So, I'm not down on The Asylum for their lamprey-like exploitation of Shark Week. I understand. There's a rich tradition of douchebaggery in Los Angeles, and they are just upholding that tradition.

I'm down on The Asylum because they have given up. The writers, directors, PA's, post-production staff, all of them...they have given up. L.A. has beaten them, and they are lashing out at L.A. and taking us with them in the process.

I won't bother to recount SharkNado for you. Not when there's someone willing to play along and gleefully tick off the plot points like a Middle School Queen Bee with a case of the Gossips. I'll let her tell you all about it.

Now, presuming that you either watched this...I hesitate to even call it a movie...or you read the synopsis, let me tell you what this, um, production is really all about. It's hate mail for Los Angeles.

The film "stars" a guy from Beverly Hills 90210, Tara Reid, and John Heard in the Steve McQueen Money Shot role. None of them are taking it seriously. How can they? SharkNado is a mass of stock footage, terrible computer-generated sharks (and I mean terrible--not "oh, it's CGI, I can tell" or "Oh, this looks more like a video game," but truly terrible as in, "I don't know much about the animation software being used by amateur filmmakers these days, but I'm pretty sure that given an hour or two, I could draw, render, and animate a more realistic looking shark using only my feet."), and a story that ignores logic--even movie logic, physics--even movie physics, and science--even movie science. It's got the appeal of a sociopathic five year old's imaginative drawings, but it never delivers on any of the above premises. All it does is bitch and moan about L.A.

I get it, L.A. is a terrible place to live. Yes, we know, the 405 is a soul-sucking monster. Right, I know, people in L.A. are crazy, and they complain incessantly. Yes, everyone is Beverly Hills is deluded. Douchebaggery abounds. Is the solution, then, to flood L.A. with ravenous, terribly-drawn sharks who can devour these people whole in a matter of seconds? Apparently so.

Of course, the only way to accomplish this is by having waterspouts and waves appear, like magic, out of nowhere, to destroy everything behind the heroes at just the right time. Waves and waterspouts--full of sharks, mind you, that crash down on these poor sinners and freaks and creeps and guys who stop on the 405 at Rush Hour because COME ON, MAN! AREN'T WE ALL IN ENOUGH PAIN WITHOUT YOU GETTING OUT OF YOUR FREAKING CAR? And what a coincidence that the sharks are conveniently swimming in these crashing waves, mouths open, to descend right straight down on the people that most need to get eaten. Mother Nature at work, y'all. What comes around, goes around.

I kept expecting the guy from 90210 to look at the camera and wink every time someone said "Beverly Hills." His character's name is Fin, by the way. Clever.

Yes, that's Beverly Hills 90210's Ian Ziering, Yes, he is
holding a chainsaw. Yes, he is, in fact, about to jump into
a flying shark's mouth. Spoiler Alert.

In the end, L.A. is devastated by waterspouts full of sharks, which was, I suspect, the original nugget of inspiration for the movie: a waterspout that picks up a deadly sea creature and deposits it on an inland coast somewhere. I think I could have and would have preferred that as a premise. One creature. Not, um, every shark in the friggin' ocean.

After all of the people that have in some way offended the writer have been killed, the final showdown happens and it's laughable. Not just in concept, but in execution. Once all of the principles are reunited, they look out over the new waterlogged sharkscape that L.A. has become, and, I don't know, make a silent promise to rebuild the city without the 405?

Taking Responsibility

Look, I'm just as guilty as the rest of you, okay? I watched it. I started it late, because I just had to finish watching Jason and the Argonauts on TMC. You folks might like it. See, in that movie, the special effects actually look like they are interacting with the live-action actors, unlike SharkNado...BOOM! Harryhausen Slam! In your Face, SharkNado! As I watched, incredulously, zipping through the advertising that was bought so that this collection of scenes could be inflicted on the viewing public, I felt a real sense of shame and embarrassment for the actors, all of whom took the job so they could pay rent in shitty apartments in L.A. for another two months.

I watched it, and it made me sad. It made me angry and sad. Well, the ending made me laugh, but it was a cathartic laugh, like the joke that someone told you at your father's funeral that broke the tension and gave you a break from your grief.

Think I'm overstating it? I know that some of you right now are thinking that I missed the point entirely. "But Finn, it's so bad, it's good!" you're probably saying to your screen. I respectfully disagree.

I've mentioned Schadenfreude before. I think most of you know what it means: it's getting pleasure from witnessing the misfortune of other people. It's the Germanic tendency that is single-handedly propping up reality television right now. The literal german to english translation of the term is "Fail-Joy." Isn't that perfect? I think that most of the people watching SharkNado were doing it to activate their "fail-joy." No one really liked SharkNado. In the back of your mind, somewhere, you were thinking, "I could have done a better job at this." You were probably right, but in the tweetscape's desire to make funny that which should never have been produced in the first place, we have lost a piece of our soul in the process. And we may never get it back.

Let me tell you what my definition of "So Bad It's Good" means. I think there are measurable criteria.  This article here is spun out of a whole book on the subject. Our definitions differ slightly, but the point is still the same. A movie is considered so bad it's good when:

1. there is something in the movie that transcends its meager offering; Plan 9 From Outer Space is the quintessential example of this. Ed Wood's earnestness can be seen and felt in the whole movie. It's like watching your seven year old nephew put on a play that he believes wholeheartedly in.

2. you can see a real viewpoint hiding under the subject matter; A great example of this is the movie, They Live. There's a cool, cool idea hiding under that godawful, cheese-riddled flick.

3. the movie's parts are greater than its sum; A perfect example is the movie, Lake Placid. The script is what holds the movie together. Every scene has Bridgett Fonda trying to upstage Bill Pullman, who is trying to keep up with Oliver Platt, who is trying to outdo Betty White. They are bringing it, and while the delivery falls flat on the special effects, you end up kinda liking and caring about everyone onscreen.

There are tons of other movies that make this cut or don't, based largely on intention. The only reason why Robot Monster is on any of the lists is not because it's "so bad it's good" but because it's just bad, period. I like it as an example of how things used to get thrown together back in the olden days, when they had a couple of pretty actors and actresses, some stock footage, and a suit for a guy to wear. They would write the script around the elements, rather than write a story and try to make something good. So, it's on my list as a first alternate. Not as a prime example. But it does sound an awful lot like, well, SharkNado. Are you following me?

SharkNado doesn't rise above its intentions. There is no ancillary viewpoint to consider. Even the artistry is lacking--no one said, "I know this is shit, but dammit, I'm going to make the best-looking sharks I can render and really try to make them seem real!" No one said that. No one did that. No one wrote a brilliantly pithy script in spite of the craptastic production values. The actors deliver all of their lines with the grace and pomp of Leslie Nielson in Forbidden Planet. That's great, if you're watching Forbidden Planet, but when you're watching SharkNado, you get the feeling that they just signed on to the film for the sweet, sweet craft services lunches. There's nothing to connect the characters with one another, nor to the audience. They don't even bother to follow the rules of disaster movies. This isn't even disaster-porn. It's not even shark porn. There's nothing to see, here, folks, except people trying to earn a S.A.G. card.

SharkNado gives Movies So Bad That They are Good a Bad Name.

Here's the real tragedy from this: according to Hollywood, this is a success. Everyone's talking about the explosion on Twitter. Thunder Levin (the writer) quipped that he'll need an agent now. SyFy, make no mistake about it, is delirious. I'm sure they feel that there's no such thing as bad press. They are, as we speak, framing these films as "event pieces--things people watch in real-time, like a smart-mob mode--the new digital paradigm for 2013 and beyond."

And this, right here, is why Hollywood thinks we are stupid. They don't consider that we could possibly want a better story, not when everyone is willing to tweet about SharkNado. They think we don't know the difference between Schindler's List and Z-grade Schlock. This is the same group of people that have speculated on why it looks like The Lone Ranger is set to fail at the box office, and why, they wonder out loud, in print, Pacific Rim looks like it'll tank, as well. This then gets picked up by the fake-news blogs in the Geek Nation and the Nerdiverse because they think that by linking to Variety.com it somehow legitimizes something about anything. It all becomes a white noise of self-fulfilling prophesies, because if I9.com said it, even if they are repeating what Variety said, then it must be true. In fact, it's all false. It's meaningless babble in a slow celebrity-scandal week. That's all.

When did we decide to let those people over there tell us what we like and don't like? Who asked for SharkNado? Did anyone say that title out loud? Who was at that pitch meeting? Who thought it would be a good (as in, so bad it's good) idea? Why aren't we advocating for better television?

I just feel bullied by Hollywood at this point. I don't think they get me. I don't think they ever did. I don't think they get many of you, either. And while I appreciate your concerted effort to make lemonade out of lemons with your genuinely funny tweets and your absolutely appropriate sarcasm about SharkNado, I think we're better off going thirsty for a while and demanding better for ourselves.

Oh, and I know some of you are probably thinking that there's a component of jealousy in my disdain for this film and the subsequent event. Let me clarify it for you: it's not jealousy. It's envy. I'd love to be able to write low-budget films for a company and have them get made and seen by hundreds of people. That would be great. Really, it would.

But not at the expense of compromising my art and my craft to intentionally make crap. If I was told that I could make, what, fifteen thousand dollars writing shark-themed scripts, but they would have to include X, Y, and Z, I would turn the job down. I know you don't believe me, but it's true. Especially where I am now, industry-wise. I wouldn't want to write anything that could confuse someone looking at it into thinking that I don't care about my audience, that I phone things in for the money, or that I have a total lack of regard for my own reputation. I know Hunter Levin thinks he's got a streak of hits going now, but he's in a bubble. When it pops, he'll be the guy who wrote SharkNado, and good luck with that one, pal. Personally, I'd rather set myself on fire.