I have a confession. But first I want to emphasize that none of us is perfect, y’all without sin etc. Everybody has some secret shame that if exposed should be penalized with nothing more stringent than forgiveness. Except this. This is worse. Okay here goes (deep breath):
I DON’T THINK THERE WERE ANY OSCAR SNUBS.
Nope. Not even Barbie. Despite Greta Gerwig’s masterful shepherding of what is so far Mattel’s greatest movie, if Zone of Interest (which I haven’t seen yet) is a dog, I’ll give Jonathan Glazer’s place to May/December’s Todd Haynes. Ditto for Robie who was almost perfect (But what’s up with her still using the Harley Quinn accent?). If Nyad isn’t up to snuff I’ll just slide in Past Lives’ Greta Lee.
It was that kind of year. Lots of good movies and for a change most of them got at least some kind of Oscar nod. But. There were those orphans and also-rans that came up all the way short. No nominations. Let’s honor them, okay?
In other words, it’s time for KEVROC’S ANNUAL BEST MOVIES THAT DIDN’T GET EVEN ONE LOUSY NOMINATION list!
Asteroid City. Wes Anderson had a short-lived Oscar vogue in the last decade with Best Picture nominations for Moonrise Kingdom in 2013 and Grand Budapest Hotel in 2014, but this year the consensus was that this deadpan dramatization of the tension between postwar optimism and post-nuclear domination which defined the latter half of The American Century was just a collection of the director’s tropes instead of a humanist masterpiece. It should have been nominated if for no other reason than to give a push to “Dear Alien (Who Art in Heaven)” for the Best Song award it deserves. (But hey, Wes got a Best Live Action Short nod for The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar).
A Good Person. Zach Braff’s directorial rep as the King of Emo, not to mention an early release date kept Oscar voters from this story of two addicts struggling not to relapse in the face of their lives’ biggest tragedy, that gave Morgan Freeman his best role in years and reaffirmed Florence Pugh’s status as the best actor of this decade.
All of Us Strangers. A simple dreamlike plot (a depressed gay man meets his soulmate, and simultaneously gets to see his long-dead parents) becomes a soul-wrenching mystical reverie brought to life by Claire Foy and Jamie Bell as the parents, Paul Mescal as the troubled soulmate and Andrew Scott, who gives a performance so exposed and vulnerable that if it went any further he’d literally shed his skin.
Monica. A trans woman (Trace Lysette) reconnects with her family and is taken for a nurse by her demented, homophobic mother (Patricia Clarkson). It sounds like Joan Crawford doing an Almodovar film but director Andrea Pallaoro goes for subtlety and nuance over camp drama in this quiet gem. Lysette should have been talked about more.
Air. This crazy-entertaining celebration of the marketing synergy of Michael Jordan and Nike got Oscar-overlooked because a whole movie devoted to a celebrity spokesperson deal is maybe just a little too on-the-nose. But it had great work by Chris Messina, Jason Bateman, a Macchiavellian Viola Davis and especially Matt Damon who might be too good an actor to ever win an Oscar for it.
Passages. Ira Sachs examination of why-good-people-love-irredeemable-pricks is a high point in the careers of Adele Exarchoupoulos and Ben Wishaw but was a breakout star vehicle for Franz Rogowski playing the kind of prick who has a one-night stand and is so smitten he can’t wait to tell his husband all about it.
Blue Beetle. You know the superhero movie is in trouble when this crackerjack film about a reluctant Latino champion of his family and community (and whose sidekicks include a Zapatista-veteran grandmother) could only find a fraction of the audience it deserved. And the line “Now is when we cry” made me cry.
Strays. All apologies to Poor Things and American Fiction, but this profane and scatological tribute to couch-humping, trash-eating dogshit producing (and eating) canis lupus familiaris was the funniest movie of the year.
Bottoms. Even beating out this gloriously tasteless and bracingly absurdist tale of high school lesbians who start a fight club to meet chicks that would win the Jean Hersholt humanitarian award if they renamed it for John Waters.
Taylor Swift: The Eras tour. The Academy’s prejudice against performance films is understandable. Certainly the struggle against dictators in Uganda and Invaders in the Ukraine are more important than a superstar juggernaut’s latest step on her way to world domination. But I’m not the only one who became convinced that the juggernaut was a real (and major) artist. And flashing on the closeups of random fans experiencing pure ecstasy was as moving as anything I saw this year.

















