have always swelled with pride whenever a motion picture with science fiction, fantasy or horror content has received Oscar recognition. That The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring was in the lead with 13 nominations going into Oscar night was a
source of wonder and vindication for me. After all, the film was adapted from a trilogy I've read many times and even read aloud to my son once he graduated from Green Eggs and Ham. Such genre acclaim was a first for this generation of moviegoers—the last SF film to receive double-digit nominations was Star Wars, back in 1977. In fact, in the history of the Academy, only Titanic and All About Eve received more nods than Rings, with 14 apiece. That A.I. Artificial Intelligence, Harry Potter and the Sorceror's Stone and other films from our part of the cinematic galaxy were also on the ballot last week was just frosting.
I've always been this way about the Oscars. When Sigourney Weaver received a Best Actress nomination for Aliens, I said to my friends, "See, see, science-fiction films can be worthy, too!" Other nominations—such as Cliff Robertson for Best Actor in Charly, Jeff Bridges for Best Actor in Starman, Stanley Kubrick for Best Director for 2001—A Space Odyssey, or E.T. the Extraterrestrial for Best Picture—gave rise to the same emotions. I even found comfort in the historical record, attempting to gain cachet for the field by pointing out Fredric March's Oscar-winning performance for Dr. Jeckyll and Mr. Hyde way back in 1931.
All of this will tell you that I am one of those people who places far too much importance on the Oscars. I haven't missed a night since I was first allowed to stay up late enough to watch them. This year, to make sure I was fully invested, I spent the past few weeks filling in any holes that had been left by my recent movie-going habits, catching up with everything from Ghost World to Gosford Park. (Even I, however, could not bring myself to watch I Am Sam, which regardless of Sean Penn's supposed magnificent performance sounded from the reviews of others as manipulative and false.) I marked my ballot with those I thought should win (and not just the political handicapping list to reflect who I thought would win) and settled down to watch. And I sent out a warning to my family to give me space and do not disturb—it's Oscar night!
Feeling a failing for the Fellowship of SF
And therein lies the rub. For this year, I was a conflicted man. I was one of the few not rooting for Ian McKellan to win that Best Supporting Actor trophy.
Going into Oscar night with my loyalties torn in a number of catagories left me feeling queasy.
On the one hand, I wanted my genre recognized. I lusted for validation. And yet, I am an honorable man (or at least, like to think I am), and so have to root for the best film or performance to win regardless of whether or not it carries forward the banner of our field. And so two of the races that night left me uncomfortable.
One was the aforementioned Best Supporting Actor category. There could be no more perfect Gandalf than Ian McKellan, yes, I admit it. He was the Gandalf of my dreams. And yet—it was Ben Kingsley in Sexy Beast who seemed to me to have pulled off the greater artistic accomplishment, one with a higher degree of difficulty. And as for the Best Picture race, well, I was nearly brought to tears by that first view of the Shire in The Fellowship of the Ring. Here made real before me was a place I had longed to visit in my youth. It touched something which Tolkien had long ago made a part of me. But still, it was Moulin Rouge that seemed to me to be the better picture. Rings did not seem a film complete unto itself, and Rouge was the only one of the five nominated pictures that left me exhilarated at its end.
I felt like a traitor.
Even though I still believed that the trophies for Director, Adapted Screenplay, Art Direction, Cinematography, Costume Design, Makeup, Original Score, Visual Effects and so on
should all go to Rings, that somehow was not enough to prevent me from feeling disloyal to the genre that has for so long been my home. Turning my back on any genre nominations still pained me—it felt as if I had rejected family.
Luckily, now that a week has gone by, my dis-ease is mostly gone. But next year, and the year after that, when Ian McKellan will surely be nominated once again, I am hoping that there will be no Ben Kingsley-level performances out there to again divide my loyalties. No one should have to go through that level of agony more than once.
At least, not over the movies.
Scott Edelman started his trek to the editor-in-chief position at Science
Fiction Weekly back in 1974, when he began working as an assistant editor at
Marvel Comics. Between these two positions, this four-time Hugo Award nominee in
the category of Best Editor was the founding editor of the
award-winning magazine Science Fiction Age, in addition to editing
Sci-Fi Universe, Sci-Fi Flix and Satellite Orbit. Currently, he also edits SCI
FI, the official magazine of the SCI FI Channel. A collection of his short fiction, These Words Are Haunted, is available from Wildside Press.
Take part in an online chat with editors Scott Edelman and Ellen Datlow on Monday, April 8.
have always swelled with pride whenever a motion picture with science fiction, fantasy or horror content has received Oscar recognition. That The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring was in the lead with 13 nominations going into Oscar night was a
source of wonder and vindication for me. After all, the film was adapted from a trilogy I've read many times and even read aloud to my son once he graduated from Green Eggs and Ham. Such genre acclaim was a first for this generation of moviegoers—the last SF film to receive double-digit nominations was Star Wars, back in 1977. In fact, in the history of the Academy, only Titanic and All About Eve received more nods than Rings, with 14 apiece. That A.I. Artificial Intelligence, Harry Potter and the Sorceror's Stone and other films from our part of the cinematic galaxy were also on the ballot last week was just frosting.
I've always been this way about the Oscars. When Sigourney Weaver received a Best Actress nomination for Aliens, I said to my friends, "See, see, science-fiction films can be worthy, too!" Other nominations—such as Cliff Robertson for Best Actor in Charly, Jeff Bridges for Best Actor in Starman, Stanley Kubrick for Best Director for 2001—A Space Odyssey, or E.T. the Extraterrestrial for Best Picture—gave rise to the same emotions. I even found comfort in the historical record, attempting to gain cachet for the field by pointing out Fredric March's Oscar-winning performance for Dr. Jeckyll and Mr. Hyde way back in 1931.
All of this will tell you that I am one of those people who places far too much importance on the Oscars. I haven't missed a night since I was first allowed to stay up late enough to watch them. This year, to make sure I was fully invested, I spent the past few weeks filling in any holes that had been left by my recent movie-going habits, catching up with everything from Ghost World to Gosford Park. (Even I, however, could not bring myself to watch I Am Sam, which regardless of Sean Penn's supposed magnificent performance sounded from the reviews of others as manipulative and false.) I marked my ballot with those I thought should win (and not just the political handicapping list to reflect who I thought would win) and settled down to watch. And I sent out a warning to my family to give me space and do not disturb—it's Oscar night!
