Certain things are predictable. The weather, for example, is fairly predictable. Meteorologists study weather patterns, and there have been advances made in technology over the years, so the instruments used to forecast weather are very reliable. This is not to pooh-pooh the predictions made by Aunt Thelma that it's going to rain because her knee is aching; Aunt Thelma's knee is not without merit, I'm sure.
The other thing that is so predictable that one can set one's watch by it is the 'offended' brigade. Every time there's an event, someone is offended. You're probably aware the Golden Globes were held yesterday, and the headlines I've read hearken to the A Star is Born camp being outraged at Golden Globes snub. To the outraged, I say this: change your tampon.
I don't know whether Bohemian Rhapsody deserved the best drama picture because I haven't viewed all the films nominated. I have seen both A Star is Born and Bohemian Rhapsody, and between the two: I'd have awarded Bohemian Rhapsody, too. Sure, it's a follow-the-simple-steps, paint-by-numbers biopic, but shit, it's a good one. Star was good, too, and the performances were great. I will admit to trying not to cry and cringe at Bradley Cooper's raw portrayal of the perpetually shit-faced musician whose star is on the wane. Lady Gaga got the gong for her original song, and I was impressed with her performance, too.
But folks, Rami Malek so beautifully brought to life the flamboyance and intoxicating charisma of the Freddie Mercury we saw on stage, and juxtaposed it beautifully with the man's private frailty, loneliness, and vulnerability. When viewing the Live Aid scenes, I felt like there was somebody behind me pulling the hairs on the back of my neck. Maybe there was? If there was, and you're reading this, if you sit behind me and try this again, I'm going to turn around and throw popcorn in your face. The popcorn at the cinema has a high enough sodium content to turn you into a lump of prosciutto, so I will sit there and smirk at you.
The silliest thing I read yesterday was an article complaining about Bohemian Rhapsody winning because the director has had allegations of a sexual nature made against him. Um, and? Look, the award was given because of the final result in the creation of the work of art, and the private peccadilloes of anybody involved play no role. It's art for art's sake, remember? Another thing, the key word here is 'allegations'. Even if the allegations are tested and proven, then they still have no bearing on the work of art (which involved the work of other people such as writers, musicians, actors, set designers, et al).
I listen to all sorts of music. I love glam rock, and metal, and Sixties and Seventies rock and bubble gum, and punk, and oh: lots and lots! (Not country; it can fuck off and die in a hole). I have a particular fondness for the different styles from the Sixties, and much awesome stuff was produced by Phil Spector, who proved to be an absolute magician in the recording studio. It might not be too hyperbolic to describe him as a genius in the recording studio, even though 'genius' is a term I would rather leave for the likes of the Edisons and Da Vincis of this world. So, using the pretzel-twisted logic of some of these nincompoops complaining about the directorship behind Bohemian Rhapsody, should we no longer listen to the fabulous tunes that echo Spector's trademark 'wall of sound' because Spector is serving a sentence for second degree murder? See where I'm going with this?
Yes, I know I still complain about the cinematic brilliance of Pulp Fiction losing to the nauseating Forrest Gump, but I think I have a case here. Pulp Fiction was a far superior film to Forrest Gump, which is corny enough to appear in your crap for a week following its viewing. However, Bohemian Rhapsody's victory at the Golden Globes is not a travesty. Okay?
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