I'm so grateful to the gents at Vampire Videos for inviting me to take part in their new Tales from the Crypt podcast Recrypted!
You can hear me talk about two Tales from the Crypt Season 1 episodes or listen to my previous Vampire Videos appearances chatting The Kiss of the Vampire and Buffy.
Chat with me at ThereforeReview on Blue Sky or peruse the Podcast tag for more audio appearances including:
The Searchers - Greatest Movies of All Time
Reassessing Repossessed
by Kristin Battestella
The Exorcist star Linda Blair is all grown up and, according to our theme song, “re-re-repossessed” in the 1990 head-spinning, pea soup spewing, oft-maligned spoof Repossessed. Priest Leslie Nielsen (Dracula: Dead and Loving It) is on the devilish case, escalating to the Pope saving souls on live television and an infamously low 11% Rotten Tomatoes score – if viewers remember Repossessed at all. With today's cult-like administration practices, however, it's time to reassess how the religious and political satire of the much derided Repossessed may have actually been ahead of its time.
As a kid, Repossessed was one of my VHS staples. 1990 was still very eighties and Reagan-esque, so anything scandalous with tawdry nudity was treasured. When the bimbo in the front row at Father Leslie's lecture is showing too much leg, he asks her to pull down her dress. She of course responses by pulling the top down and letting the bazongas free. Re-watching Repossessed now, there were many more anticipated punchlines and rim shots that still made me laugh – much to the chagrin of my never-seen-it-before husband who was both annoyed at my predictions and didn't find any of it all that funny. Such datedness is indeed much of the problem with Repossessed. Like new viewers who won't understand the Glenn Miller jokes on The Golden Girls, Repossessed is so overly reliant on eighties scandals, headlines, and pop culture moments that you really had to be there to get it. You may think that makes Repossessed bad now, but just think how all today's quip a minute movies will be undiscernible in forty years!
Demure, yuppie housewife Blair (Witchery) who's supposed to have the ideal conservative life is once again possessed by the devil, who discovers that exorcisms on television are the gateway to spreading demons to leaders across the globe thanks to America's sanctimonious floundering over the likes of Jerry Falwell and Jessica Hahn. Telethon cameos from Body by Jake, Jesse Ventura, and more people modern viewers probably won't recognize anchor music montages to “Devil with the Blue Dress On” but, do folks today even know that song? Yes, it's busy and messy, descending into mixed meta, slow chases, and the Pope on guitar. Repossessed does not always succeed in its larger satire comedy thanks to a muddled, stupid finale designed for the MTV generation. Had Repossessed had a more finely tuned script or edit then, maybe it wouldn't have flopped into obscurity. The “Father Mayii” name in itself is hysterically genius to every twelve year old.
Anthony Starke (The Magnificent Seven) is also here as Nielsen's priestly sidekick, and for a time, to me as a precocious kid anyway, it seemed that he'd cornered the market on satirical genre fare thanks to the likewise shrewd Return of the Killer Tomatoes. Blair and Nielsen also seem to be having a great time with the self-referential performances, confronting Blair's horror typecasting while Nielsen lampoons it – like when our priest is caught on camera calling his agent asking how to get out of this. For all the nostalgic eighties floral prints, bright colors, and big hair; Repossessed actually looks good when it comes to the expected Exorcist effects, making one wonder what might have happened if the story was told straight. However, to be so chilling was not Repossessed's intent. Unfortunately, viewing Repossessed again under the orange cloud that is Trump brings the film disturbingly full circle. The devil shall enter in via the perfect housewife! How can he spread evil to the masses? Television!
When Repossessed originally bombed at the box office in the Fall of 1990, Trump was already a well-known, notorious businessman with his Art of the Deal ghostwritten fakery – as parodied in much better in Back to the Future Part II. It wasn't until the 2004 reality show The Apprentice that Trump was re-imagined as savvy cool wealthy business leader who could fire at will. Television had made the now seemingly downright demure scandals of the eighties mocked in Repossessed, and the reality show era likewise capitalized on creating scripted shock value. Now, the daily absurdities and constantly escalating extremes of our current regime make Repossessed perhaps seem even weaker because it doesn't go far enough. We were too innocent then to think you could pretend to be Jesus and piss off the Pope and just get away with it. Our husband and son just want their possessed mom back sans the demonic drama and split pea soup. American families currently suffering the increasing sociopolitical consequences can certainly relate to the desire for normalcy. Devil with a blue dress blue dress blue dress devilwithabluedresson...we impeached a president for lying about a stain on a blue dress but now we let them tear down the East Wing and hawk edited Bibles with Trump's gold seal of approval. Make it make sense!
Even if you don't get all the pop culture puns or televangelist taboos and thus some of the jokes fall flat, there's a lot of Repossessed that's eerily all too familiar thanks to the contemporary political climate. Don't dismiss the comedy performances and social commentary just based on that Rotten Tomato score. Reassess Repossessed and heed the horror comedy parable.
I had a lot of fun visiting with Vampire Videos again to chat about Buffy: The Vampire Slayer! You can hear my contribution on “School Hard” in Part 1!
Catch up with all the Buffy rankings on Substack and hear Parts 2 and 3 or the latest podcasts at VampireVideos.co.uk.
Listen to our previous Kiss of the Vampire chat with Vampire Videos or peruse more Podcast appearances including:
Greatest Movies of All Time - The Searchers
2025 Guest Podcast Appearances
Re-Watching American Gladiators is....Weird
by Kristin Battestella
I used to love the original American Gladiators. However, upon discovering the American Gladiators livestream channel in the middle of the 1997 seventh and final season, watching now is....weird.
The rah-rah Americana attitude is obnoxious with over the top, contrived macho dominating the supposedly competitive sportsmanship, leaving a very bitter aftertaste on the actual sporting events. Re-starting the livestream with Season 1, on the other hand, provides a much different viewing experience. This was 1989 with less polished event facilities and straightforward filming explaining the competition and the requirements on sports agility and skill. Difficulty is placed over entertainment ease, and the gladiators praise the impressive contestants between events. It's surprising how little protective equipment participants like actor Billy Wirth (“Death by stereo” of The Lost Boys) wear – leading to vicious, competitive moments. Sometimes the contestants are often better than the gladiators in what may be the best moments of the series. I can deal with the retro hokeyness and garish, poorly lit arena, but the mullets and Aquanet hair are out of control! Fortunately, Season 2 remains similarly focused on the events with a more streamlined production and only a small amount of gladiator turnover. The series premise hypes the competitors from across America, but as much as we root for recurring contestants through preliminary, quarterfinal, and championship rounds; viewers are here to see the gladiators. Although their numbers expand from eight to ten, the gladiators are quickly treated as interchangeable, some even wearing the same costumes like Sunny and Gold or reusing the same name like Lace. The athletes start in jackets and pants, but sexism slowly settles in with the women increasingly referred to as girls. Female competitors wear pink or yellow halter tops and tiny shorts while the men remain modestly clothed in gray and teal.
By Year 3, the early reality show vibes begin to takeover with more bulked up gladiators adding macho asides even as the events give them less to do. In the Assault event, contestants have the chance to showcase their aim and dodging abilities while the gladiators merely fire tennis balls that could have been done by a machine. In the NFL special episodes, they “let” the women gladiators fire as a way to “include” them. It makes viewers wonder why the opposite sex can't always compete in Assault. The football meets wrestling Powerball challenge also makes the gladiators look like top heavy, unskilled bodybuilders and slow on their feet former athletes, losing against better suited amateur contestants and Olympians. Thankfully the Joust and Hang Tough are fun because they are one on one competitions. There are likable gladiator moments where they answer questions or share something of their personalities. Longer interviews with gladiators detailing their training specifics, regimes, and calorie counts are quite interesting. However, these become few and far between as the female gladiator costumes become more and more skimpy. The men can be covered head to toe but the women must constantly adjust their bikini-style tops from near nip slips and pick the wedgies of their tiny thong-style bottoms during events. At some point, it doesn't matter which gladiator is doing what event. We don't get to know them beyond their hardcore shouts at the screen and trite sports platitudes while they're pumping iron in between contests. Instead of their real names with “Ice” or “Zap” as their middle name cool, anonymity becomes part of the gladiator model. Promotions to join the gladiator fan club or see them on tour are more important than whether you see Turbo, Tower, Thunder, or Titan. Siren is exploited for her hearing disability amid Baywatch crossovers and international spin-offs where the gladiators become more like caricatures. Why are all the women blonde? Why are the Black gladiators treated stereotypically as if they all look the same? The commentators increasingly intrude on the participants with silly interviews and nicknames while repeating the catchphrases of Black contestants with backhanded racist comments about how fast they run.
Sexist commentary also increases, with female athletes complimented for their beauty and grace rather than their athleticism. The gladiators themselves seem over it as if they don't want to be there, and the voiceovers become increasingly juvenile with redundant platitudes when not sticking the microphone in a competitor's face before a critical event or immediately after an upsetting loss. Some wrongs are corrected in Season 5 with a more colorful set and time once again for gladiator chats; but at this point, it's just easier to mute the television so we don't have to hear the fluff dialogue. Maybe American Gladiators should have been a half hour series with no attempt at personality and just focused on the events? American Gladiators really jumps the shark with the Season 6 NYPD vs LAPD special. Either the raging out gladiators really hate them or the police aren't that good, for most of the events score no points and the commentators have plenty of arresting or handcuffed quips. The Olympics special is equally cringe, favoring the gladiators instead of the athletes while the classic Bill Conti (Falcon Crest) theme is made unnecessarily edgy, losing the unique and triumphant fanfare. Initially I could leave the livestream on in the background like any other sport, but the constant iN yOUr FACE! projection becomes mind numbing, making it easy to tune out entirely. The contrived tension overtakes the sports intensity, and the gladiators come to reinforce the notion that the stronger you are, the more of an asshole you must be. They sneer and rip off players' helmets, put contestants out with concussions, and revel in firing at competitors – saying they are hunters going after their prey. But I guess it's okay when the contestants do back flips to rouse the crowd and get their shirts ripped off to show their muscles.
In the 1989 debut, audiences might have been able to believe the competition was real; that anyone in America could truly prove their mettle. American Gladiators is best when it focuses on the competitive challenges like Whiplash, Tug of War, or the Gauntlet where the gladiators are directly engaged in the action. Unfortunately, events seem increasingly rigged and contrived like this is the WWE. Silly events like Sky Deck and Swingshot overtake more athletic competitions. What is the point of The Maze? The editing of events is likewise apparent as some contests are merely told of rather than shown. Injuries increase and at the ready replacements step right in be it contestant or gladiator. New gladiators appear randomly with no explanation as if there is some Olympus stable where they all spring forth. There's no hugs or any respect. Viper seems downright menacing, and the commentators embellish actions as if this is Major League. Any interviews with gladiators are filled with enraged threats amid referee controversies and token female commentators. Carrying contestants off the mat and making the gladiators unlikable seems to go directly against the spirit of the series' premise. The seasons are also ridiculously long with twenty-six episodes for tournaments that should have been half that. Marathon viewing such as this illumes all the flaws and has little repeat value once you know who wins. Alas, we return to Season 7, where the full of itself macho is overwhelming and insufferable as angry gladiators growl at everyone. The final runner up is actually now a Georgia congressman who left his second wife over an affair with a fellow Texas congresswoman. Ironically, this sums up American Gladiators in many ways, for the extreme Americana hype on display then indicates to a viewer now where some of these gladiators' political leanings today surely lie.
Apparently everything that could go wrong did go wrong for American Gladiators with behind the scenes issues, compensation disputes, steroid rumors, and grueling international tours clearly taking their toll. The rah-rah of it all represents a specific time and place, when the nineties were good and we had reason to be so frivolous in sport. This nostalgia means I can't quite tear myself away from watching even as the horrendous hype holds the mirror up to our country now. I liked Turbo best then, but re-watching today I'm much more aware of the rainbow vibe. Will this proposed new version of American Gladiators on Amazon Prime properly address coed mix gender challenges and lean into that camp potential? Of course not. MGM's goal is to appeal to the white male sports viewer with the livestream's commercials promoting the Prime sports packages. Edgy graphics with split screens, angled photography and that espn2 cool will not fly today. Nor would seemingly insightful interviews with gladiators admitting they are aggressive and cocky because they can be. Who wants to watch that?
American Gladiators is a sociological train wreck to view today; a time capsule ironically capturing our country's current attitude that makes for a weird, uncomfortable re-watch.
I am so excited to take part in awards pundit Matthew Anderson's new After Hours podcast!
This Patreon exclusive spin-off of his Lone Screenplay Nominee podcast was the perfect opportunity to chat about L.A. Confidential alongside my fellow Women InSession panelist Jaylan Salah. Thank you for having us Matthew!
You can hear my previous Lone Screenplay chat with Matthew on Stand by Me or browse the Podcast and Video tags for more guest appearances including:
Lone Acting Nominee Podcast City Slickers
Greatest Movies of All Time Ben-Hur
I had such fun chatting with The Lone Acting Nominee Podcast about Jack Palance & City Slickers!
It's so great to be a part of so many new Podcasts in 2025! Join me on Blue Sky for more collaborations or browse the Podcast tag for more appearances including:
Hateship Loveship on the Female Gaze Podcast
Critic Spotlight: Kristin Battestella on The Women InSession Podcast at InSessionFilm.com
Women's History Month Collab with The Revisionist's Almanac Podcast
Disappointing 19th Century Gothic Dramas
by Kristin Battestella
These two throwback productions have a lot to offer in period piece morose. Unfortunately, the crowded storytelling makes for disappointing, mixed bag viewing that deserved more.
The Black Velvet Gown – Janet McTeer (Albert Nobbs) leads this 1991 award winning ITV adaption of the Catherine Cookson novel complete with 1830s impoverished patchwork and dirty coal downtrodden mood. The dated, flat print actually helps the humble, hardworking candles and quills as our widow Mariah and her children come to work at a dilapidated manor for four shillings plus room and board. Bitter spinster sisters give the disapproving once over and gossip about what trouble she is because Mariah can read and write, but chores and montages with upbeat music and ye olde town square bustle imply circumstances are otherwise happy. The master sets up a school in his library for the children and offers our housekeeper his mother's titular gown. However, suggested love triangles with the woodsman move quickly, nobody seems to brood or like each other that much yet there's talk of marriage and Mariah disrobes to wait for the master – who says she doesn't look that much older than her little daughter. Though struggling financially, he promises the children puppies and ponies, crossing fatherly boundaries and creepily manhandling them before the enraged twelve year old boy slices up the master with a sickle. The master admits he had to give up teaching because of his “weakness” but his threat to have the boy jailed for attacking him carries more weight then his implied abuse? The family is blackmailed into staying, forcing Mariah to rip up that gorgeous dress before the time jumps to eight years later. Our daughter is now quite the scholar, feeling sorry for the deathbed master that taught her and screwed over her family. This moves fast, almost too fast – as if the important elements have been glossed over and we're supposed to sympathize with the master for making the daughter his heiress. The male lawyers think Mariah should be grateful for inheriting this strapped property, speculating that she slept with her master to get it. Unfortunately, any potential behind closed doors meaty is at best tame and largely absent. A letter seemingly confirming the master abused the son is ignored by the daughter he educated, and her being smart is made the worse crime. Servants must know their place and never talk back as we move from mother to daughter in the second half. Young Biddy remains determined at the new downstairs, defiant despite being whipped while her brother is said to be smart enough to keep quite. The abusive undercurrent is confusing, for sex was seemingly traded to the previous master yet it's this tough laundress work that must be endured and overcome. What filth she's spreading by quoting poetry in public and learning letters in the servant quarters! Although the nothing new statements are weak, the high up idiots not wanting anyone else to gain knowledge reeks of today. Once elevated to chambermaid, our daughter learns how to behave and marries up before using her inheritance to open an equal opportunity school. The morose atmosphere, dramatic performances, and attention to class detail are here, however the last half hour rushes with no focus on how our smart girls cause trouble and all the men want them nonetheless. The twofold storytelling feels pointless with no time to tell either properly – leaving viewers to read the book to get the whole tale. I mean, the dress never even had to do with anything? Great frock, though. Would wear!
The Doctor and the Devils – The Burke and Hare names are changed for this long gestating 1985 Freddie Francis (Dracula Has Risen from the Grave) directed and Mel Brooks (Dracula: Dead and Loving It) produced horror yarn with a surprisingly elite cast. Well dressed doctor Timothy Dalton's (Penny Dreadful) sophisticated justification of what must be done in the name of anatomy and male only lecture hall contrast the gory body on the exam table – the grim product of grave diggers Stephen Rea (The End of the Affair) and Jonathan Pryce (Tomorrow Never Dies) who circumvent medical law for three guineas a body to impress working girl Twiggy (Brand New World). Dirty streets, ruined clothes, and congested pubs don't mix with the top hats and brightly lit upscale, reiterating the classism between working girls and well to do praying doctor's sister Sian Phillips (I, Claudius). The dialogue is intriguing and the performances well done. However this is slow to start with to and from coming and going carriages and romps in the back alleys. Drawn out scenes and idle busy moments delay the graveside thefts, creepy cadaver cuttings, bleeding arteries, and blood splatter marring the fine shirts and ties. At only ninety-two minutes, this should know whether it's focus is the murderous men or the medial horror. Pretty medical assistant Julian Sands (Gothic) gets his hands dirty in buying the bodies, but seeing his girl in the shady brothel, well that's too much! Humor and hooker jokes are apparently meant to have us laugh at the downtrodden who have resorted to killing, but the realistic gore and muffled smotherings in the dark are a better warped. After all, our desperate snatchers are putting bedridden victims out of their misery. The dirty pain, black teeth, and pox sallow waste of the living is made new, fresh, and useful as a dead body. New messy science has no time for red tape impeding a surgeon who makes scary sense when he objects to his talents being shackled by outdated ideology. Rival professor Patrick Stewart (Star Trek) is suspicious of our flippant doctor at the medical inquest. Yes that is his kidney in the jar but it's not his kidney! Healing a grateful cripple offering a meager payment conflicts with the necessary dehumanizing of the cadaver. Our doctor can't worry that they used to be people when it's his duty to do what needs to be done in the name of science. The provocative ideas are crowded with the body snatching comic relief, unnecessary scenes, back alley cockfights, and long gaps with seemingly important characters absent onscreen. The last half hour rushes with dinner parties shocked to hear of homelessness, doomed women, and the city squalor beneath the high society galleries. More victims and moralistic questions split hairs on if paying for bodies is murder for hire. Poor lodgers who suspect foul play and a tough old lady that just won't die are oddly played for laughs amid fiery dreams, butchers, and bodies in the sewer. Recognizing a victim is inconsequential when our doctor demands that he is right and the medical establishment is wrong. The Hammer throwback vibes and gothic atmosphere are welcome with working girls in peril, betrayals, and fingers left in the fireplace. However the period drama and humorous attempts don't quite come together with the best horror moments. This wraps up quickly with who's arrested or gets away unbothered becoming lost – probably thanks to the decades of delay and too many hands on the script.
It was so fun to get provocative and rainy with 1999: The Podcast as we discussed The End of The Affair. Huge thanks to John and Julia for having me to chat about religion, Ralph Fiennes, forties fashion, and more!
Thank you for listening and stay tuned for yet more audio and visual appearances! DMs are open on Blue Sky for collaborations or follow our Podcast tag for past episodes:
Greatest Movies of All Time – Ben-Hur
NeverEnding Watchlist James Bond Collab
My Coffin of Oscar Disdain
by Kristin Battestella
My piss-ant attitude toward Oscar pundits this messy awards season did not happen overnight. As I've mentioned on Blue Sky and in several Video and Podcast appearances alongside my previous Why I'm Disinterested in Awards Season op-ed; my disdain for the Academy Awards began early. Here then are the chronological nails in my coffin and why the head scratching, so often erroneous Oscars are not worth such out of control, vicarious obsession for everything but the films that are supposed to mean the most to us.
As a kid in the eighties I was aware of the Oscars purely as prestige. Awards were for art house, international, period piece epics and serious films that I often didn't get to see. Oscar winning films weren't for everyone, and that exclusivity remains largely true. Many popular films and blockbusters or genre hits of the decade have endured more than many of the obscure, out of touch eighties Best Picture nominees. Maybe I didn't understand the details then, but the Academy's unwelcoming, full of itself nature was already apparent.
The Searchers receiving no nominations
When we got our first VCR, I fell in love with what cinema should be upon seeing The Searchers. In consulting my ye olde film guides and Oscar books, however, I was completely baffled that The Searchers not only didn't win any of the big awards, but it wasn't even nominated for anything! This was a how sway before there was even how sway. I read more literature agreeing on the mastery of John Ford's seminal piece, and this lack of Academy acknowledgment remains flat out WRONG. Little me knew it then, and my disdain deepened upon reading of more fifties Oscars errors – like Rear Window going empty-handed.
Goodfellas losing Best Picture
Surely, historical Oscar mistakes were just a fluke of classic film to be studied, right? Alas no, as I saw the Academy screw up again in real time when Goodfellas did not win Best Picture. Everything I already thought about Oscar's elite attitudes was compounded by the white savior Dances with Wolves defeating the unmistakably Italian Goodfellas. This egregiousness made it personal.
Falling in love with the mid-century acting masterclass that is Montgomery Clift's unfortunately brief body of work is something every so-called classic connoisseur should do. Although nominated four times for The Search, A Place in The Sun, From Here to Eternity and Judgment at Nuremberg; Clift never won. A case can also be made that he deserved more nominations for The Heiress, Red River, I Confess, Suddenly Last Summer, Wild River, or The Misfits yet because he's not an Oscar winner, Clift is now considered somewhat second tier in the classic pantheon. My budding teen self was once again confounded how some of the best films and performances will always be on the outside looking in when it comes to Oscar.
The ignoring of Terence Stamp for The Adventures of Priscilla Queen of the Desert
Obviously I knew nothing of the drag scene in nineties Sydney, but I learned everything I needed to know about rainbow compassion from Priscilla. Famed as the villainous Zod in Superman, Stamp's middle-aged transsexual widow was a revelation transcending cinema. A tender, delicate performance that was a bold, daring statement speaking to post-AIDS attitudes that continues to resonate today. Naturally the fearful Academy dared not touch such superb insight – instead choosing the relative safety of only acknowledging Priscilla for costumes.
L.A. Confidential not winning Best Picture
Somewhere along the line I heard someone say that the Screenplay winners are actually the better movies than what wins Best Picture. Never has this been more true than the heaps of praise upon the blockbuster Titanic, which is not the better picture than the neo noir masterpiece that is L.A. Confidential. Here the eighties prestige swung the other way – choosing the popular film and box office success as increasingly necessary to win. Whether you are a complex, sophisticated piece that stands the test of time apparently has nothing to do with it.
No nomination for Guy Pearce for Memento
Too bad for everyone who's tired of hearing me say it, but this is my hill. Guy Pearce's lack of Academy acknowledgment for Memento highlights all of Oscar's problems. Playing it safe #oscarssowhite not properly awarding Denzel Washington for Malcolm X lead to his against type make up win alongside the nomination acclaiming offensive performances like I Am Sam. This slap in the face was enough to make me stop actively paying attention to awards season for the rest of the decade. When the Academy doesn't recognize someone like Pearce and Christopher Nolan as the future of twenty-first century cinema, what are they even doing?
A point for Christian Bale's win!
Believe it or not, I took one nail out of my Oscar coffin in 2011 when Christian Bale won for The Fighter. I even called my parents to tell them the kid from Newsies won an Oscar! Despite his previously being overlooked for more daring performances like American Psycho and The Machinist, this was a rare occasion where the Academy finally did something right.
Michael Fassbender's nominations for the wrong films
Of course, my return to active awards interest was not meant to be as the impressive Fassbender was ignored for excellent performances in Hunger and Fish Tank. He was on the outside looking in at no nomination for Shame with jokes all season instead, and Carey Mulligan was also unfairly lost in the shuffle. Of course, Fassbender was graced with a seemingly obligated nomination for 12 Years a Slave, and I laughed at his subsequent nod for the stereotypically baity Steve Jobs. Forcing one of our most daring actors into awards safety turned me away yet again.
Guy Pearce receiving no acknowledgment for The Rover
I casually knew Pearce was once again not in the awards conversation for The Rover, having long accepted that it's worth seeking out his edgy, raw films that standing pat Oscar would never touch. However after having to wait for and then finally see The Rover, I was once again angry at how the supposed bar of award excellence could ignore such haunting material. Even in absentia this reaffirmed my Oscar free attitude for the next decade.
So now I was lured into the awards circus once more thanks to the world's apparently waking up to Guy Pearce's being worthy of acclaim for The Brutalist. We're in the home stretch of what has been the messiest, nastiest, cutthroat, and ridiculous award season. Everything about why I hated awards has increased tenfold in the social media age with Oscar obsession totally out of touch on everything that's happening in this disastrous 2025. Euphoric pundits play along in a game of predictions, patterns, and if this than that algorithms that have nothing to do with any meaning found in the films and performances. When the wannabe experts admit that the best doesn't win, film goers are supposed to accept that falsehood instead of enjoy the movies that move them? I object the devotion to contrived Academy politics over quality cinema.
I don't expect Guy Pearce to win anything. Even if he did, this year is the tenth and final nail in my Coffin of Oscar Disdain. I've had one foot out the door with my back turned for most of this century, and I will never be drawn back into award punditry and patheticness over art ever again.
Oscar is dead to me. I don't know her. ⚰️
