I had firm control of the cork but, obviously, not much else. That much was a given.
It was about then, however, that the contents of the bottle of champagne (actually “méthode champenoise-style” sparkling wine) that had been residing in my very gracious Oscar-party hostess’s refrigerator for an indeterminate number of moon cycles decided to go vertical.
The first hint that something might be amiss took place when a geyser of bubbly shot up behind my transitional bifocals to hang out on the ceiling above the sink and began raining down in a quite aromatic and delectable drizzle.
Other than removing my specs, licking my chops, and continuing to construct the two mimosa cocktails that had been my assigned chore, there wasn’t really a whole lot else to do at that point. All in all, I thought it was a rather auspicious beginning to Oscar night in the Heber Valley.
A couple of nights previous, I had watched the Independent Spirit Awards, easily my favorite peer-driven Oscar-season self-congratulatory gathering. That evening, the closest I came to my Champagne debacle of later in the week was to misplace my AC/DC devil horns that I put on to hex those nominees who have not sufficiently curried my favor during the previous cinematic year.
As it turned out, this year’s show had nothing to compete with the sight of Phillip Seymour Hoffman’s wrestling roll-about from a couple of years past, but, as I mentioned, it’s easily the most interesting and entertaining exhibition of the bunch.
The Spirit Awards annually flaunt a much more laid-back informality than the others. In the past, if memory serves, they would set up tents on the beach at Santa Monica while checking their attitudes at the door.
Not to say that the cinematic art-in-question suffered from a lack of reverence. It’s just that those involved in the independent filmmaking community see themselves as playing under different rules than those with major studio backing. And they wear that independence on their sleeves, so to speak.
You also get a chance to catch a wider swath of acceptance speeches than you do at the Oscars. And sometimes, when a nominee is on a roll, like Jeff Bridges this year, you get to witness slightly different yet equally ecstatic emotionality.
In the absence of “Avatar” and “The Hurt Locker,” “Precious,” an extraordinary film by any criteria, took home most of the major awards at Spirit. A few more Sundance films show up in the mix at this one, also. Watching filmmakers you got to go one-on-one with at past festivals being recognized is always a very cool deal.
Such was the case with Cary Joji Fukunaga and his film “Sin Nombre” which garnered both the U. S. Dramatic Director’s and Excellence in Cinematography Awards at Sundance 2009. Nominated at Spirit 2010 in the Best Feature category, Fukunaga found himself in some pretty high cotton.
The high point of the Golden Globes, which I also caught, had to be when the best song category winners were announced and Ryan Bingham found himself in the bar hearing his name called from a flat-screen in the corner — the result of which had co-composer T-Bone Burnett accepting their award unassisted.
Bingham didn’t make that same mistake twice, however. When he and T-Bone approached the stage once “The Weary Kind (Theme from Crazy Heart)” had been announced as the Oscar winner, there was total composure and a songwriter’s eloquence.
Back a year ago in December when Teri Orr and the Park City Performing Arts Foundation brought Bingham to town, it was quite obvious to all in the hall that this was raw artistry on a huge upward arc. But to imagine him on such a worldwide stage so quickly gives one added confidence in those who judge such matters.
And the film “Crazy Heart” was easily the basket wherein most of my celluloid eggs reposed during this year’s awards season. It was my favorite film and I was so rooting for Jeff and Maggie and T-Bone and Ryan.
There’s something about that roadhouse vibe that has stuck to my cultural ribs over the years and to see it portrayed in such brilliant cinematic fashion was sheer joy. Not to mention that gorgeous New Mexico landscape.
My biggest letdown at the Oscars this year was probably the French film “A Prophet” losing out in the Foreign Language category to the Argentine “The Secret in Their Eyes,” which I didn’t see. Not that I’m superstitious in these matters but maybe if I hadn’t mishandled the champagne, it would have gone the other way. Drat!
Jay Meehan is a culture junkie and a free-lance writer with a background in commercial and community radio, among other pursuits. He has been a columnist and feature writer for various Park City publications going back to 1973.