“No Bravery” in Iraq…a sad, moving music video piece sitting on the Huffington Post. Well worth your time.

“I think you called it right on Annie Proulx‘s reaction to the Oscars in the Guardian. She seems to be coming from a place of deep disillusionment and a belief that the Academy was an actual, honest-to-goodness arts organization…like those that have previously awarded her the National Book Award, the Pulitzer, and the O. Henry Award, and included her in the Best American Short Stories anthology. In the literary world, when there are five finalists for a book award, the judges are likely to actually take the time to read through the books, for the most part, before passing judgment. That some in the Motion Picture Academy who cast votes would admit that they hadn’t invested the time and effort to see all of the nominees — and face it, how much time does it take to see five films, as opposed to reading through five novels? — is probably inconceivable to Proulx. I believe that is why her trip to the Oscars was such a cultural shock. She apparently didn’t realize until last weekend that the reference to ‘arts’ in AMPAS’ name is a misnomer.” — Sherry Fairchok

One of graphic novelist Alan Moore‘s problems (and there are quite a few of them) is definitely with the Wachowski brothers’ V for Vendetta (Warner Bros., 3.17), given his statement that he’s “read the screenplay” and “it’s rubbish.” He also feels, according to Dave Itzkoff‘s 3.12 profile of Moore in the N.Y. Times, that the American film business “has distorted his writing beyond recognition,” which refers not only to Vendetta but his adverse feelings about the way From Hell and The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen turned out. (Curiously, Itzkoff didn’t speak to the producer of these films, comic-book maven Don Murphy, who knows the situation and would have provided a snappy quote or two.) Moore also feels that the mainstream comics industry (D.C. Comics in particular) “has hijacked the properties he created.” What it all boils down to is that Moore is more than a bit of a prima donna. Living off in his own precious, tucked-away realm and “fighting to maintain an integrity that [others] don’t understand,” in the words of Moore’s artist-fiancee Melinda Gebbie, Moore almost makes the concept of artistic integrity seem tiresome. Wait…he does make it seem tiresome! “I was kind of a selfish child who always wanted things his way,” he tells Itzkoff, “and I’ve kind of taken that over into my relationship with the world.” His graphic novel fans, meanwhile, are looking forward to “Lost Girls,” a work of erotic imagining due this summer, and a new volume of “The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen” either later this year or in early ’07.

Turns out Brokeback Mountain was done in by the likes of Jay Leno, David Letterman, Nathan Lane and the dozens of other jokesters who guffawed at the sad gay cowboys, and also by the failure of the gay comunity for laughing along with them. Or so says Karel, a radio talk-show guy, in this Advocate commentary piece.

“I think Peter Howell makes a good point about the Academy’s fear allowing Crash to sneak away with the Best Picture Oscar. However, I think the most glaring example of the Academy kowtowing to fear would be Citizen Kane losing the 1941 Oscar to How Green Was My Valley. That time was the fear of Randolph Hearst and the national stink his henchman would have made if Kane had won. Also in both examples, the ultimate winner seemed to be a safe wagon on which the Academy members could jump. The winners of ’41 and ’05 are good quality movies, just not in the same league as Citizen Kane and Brokeback Mountain.” — Jeffrey A. Easter

I can relate to Annie Proulx‘s sour grapes (“Blood on the Red Carpet“), although if I were her I probably wouldn’t have confessed to them. In a fair and aesthetically just world Brokeback Mountain, the film based on Proulx’s short story of the same name, wouldn’t have lost the Best Picture Oscar to Crash…and she knows it as well as anyone, and she’s furiously pissed about it. Truly first-rate writers don’t tippy-toe around their feelings, no matter how raw and unattractive they might seem to guys like David Poland, who thought at first that Proulx’s piece might have been taken from The Onion, and then called it “the ugliest Oscar speech ever.”

I have to shut down for two or three hours, but I’m looking for thoughts and/or arguments about Failure to Launch star Matthew McConaughey. I’m cooking up a piece about the poor guy called “Dead Man Walking.” It’s my belief that McConaughey is a somewhat historic figure in that he’s one of the very few actors who’ve made it as a pseudo-movie star and yet, contrary to what you might think is a necessary attribute, exude absolutely nothing from within. No river, no spirit…McConaughey is the most empty-souled movie actor I can remember since Don Johnson. But he presents an interesting proposition, which is that sometimes, apparently, you don’t need to have anything going on inside to be moderately popular and sell a reasonable amount of tickets and be a semi-credible marquee attraction. Some movigoers, in other words, enjoy and/or identify with shallowness. Obviously some women and some gay guys must like the guy, right? But are there historical precedents besides Johnson? If Montomery Clift is an icon for the kind of movie star who was once very pretty but also had tremendous amounts of inner activity going on, who were the empty-cupboard stars of the ’40s, 50s and ’60s who were like McConaughey…if any? (I just thought of a few — Guy Madison, Tab Hunter, Troy Donahue.) He’s the easygoing, nothing-to-say, nothing-on-his- mind, party-guy movie star of the red-state DisneyWorld TGIF set…right? Or am I missing something?

“Sunday’s selection of Crash over Brokeback Mountain for Best Picture was the first time in memory that fear seemed to be the guiding impulse for awarding Oscar’s top prize,” says Toronto Star critic/columnist Peter Howell. “Faced with the choice between a feel-good movie about the evils of racism and a troublesome film that challenged prejudices about homosexual love, Academy voters grabbed their security blankets and starting sucking on their thumbs. They figured they were being progressive, but in fact they shunned anything that smacked of subversion. In an era of cowboy conservatives they wanted real Marlboro men, not sensitive males who collected dirty shirts as love mementoes.”

“I could not promise that we would not come back and do a [Sopranos] movie,” series creator David Chase has told N.Y. Times writer Bill Carter (which I can’t link to because the article is on Times Select). “It may be that in two or three or four years I could be sitting around and get an idea for a really great Sopranos movie. I don’t think that will happen. But if one morning somebody woke up and said this would make a really good, concise, contained Sopranos story, I wouldn’t rule that out.”

Another example of a Sopranos spoiler, this from N.Y. Times critic Allesandra Stanley: “Sadly, this episode marks the beginning of the end. The good news is that it begins with a badda bang.” And by the way, why do reviewers keep saying this is the final season? It’s fucking not that, okay? As N.Y. Times guy Bill Carter recalls in a Times Select article that I can’t link to, to wit: “After several years of speculation, [series creator David] Chase and the executives of HBO came to an agreement that the latest season of 12 episodes, which starts up on March 12, would be the show’s last — and then they renegotiated again and added a mini-season of eight more episodes that will be shot in the coming months and played starting [in January ’07].”

Woody Allen‘s Paris-based film, which lenses there this summer with Wild Bunch footing the bills, was described in Variety‘s 3.7 story as “an American movie set in Paris” rather than one with largely French characters, or not in the vein of Match Point and Scoop, which were London-based flicks mostly about English natives. It would be nice if Allen’s Paris locations turn out to be less generically touristy than the London ones he chose for Match Point, but you know Woody…his pics always use “glamorous” locations enjoyed by mildly hip, not-terribly- adventurous people with money. (So forget Oberkampf.) Woody’s next will shoot in ’07 in Barcelona. (Calling Whit Stillman for advice and assistance! I just saw Barcelona for the first time about six months ago, by the way, and I think it’s far and away Stillman’s best). You can’t say Woody getting out of Manhattan has been the best thing for his career and his creativity in a long time because we only have Match Point so far as evidence, but something tells me it might turn out to be this…maybe. Hey, any chance of Scoop turning up in Cannes two months from now?

A sympathetic portrait of Oscar-winning Crash producer Cathy Schulman by Risky Business columnist Anne Thompson. Stand-out graph: “In the film community, while many respect Schulman’s taste and acumen as a producer, some question her business judgment when it comes to the men with whom she works. ‘Cathy’s emotionality makes her a good producer on-set,’ says one producer, ‘but gets her into trouble in business.'”