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Some scenes or sequences are so evocative, so close to the heart of the human condition, and so movingly played that you can imagine the director shaping the entire film around them. While each of the film’s four seasons begins with shots of the industrious couple farming their allotment, it’s Mary who becomes each season, drunkenly hopeful in the spring, still warmly engaged in her doomed quest for love in summer, sent on a downward spiral by a rival in fall, and then ravaged, stripped bare in winter. Thus the aging, pretty, lovelorn woman has reason to feel that she’s “one of the family,” though she fails to see Tom and Gerri exchanging glances and rolling their eyes and she doesn’t have sense enough to fathom the consequences of aiming her love-lights at Joe, their charmless 30-year-old unmarried son (Oliver Maltman). She’s gently, affectionately patronized for her flakiness, her follies, most notably and amusingly her purchase of a little red car (an ongoing disaster). When she gets potted, they put her up for the night in their grown son’s old bedroom. Tom’s a geologist, Gerri’s a counselor at the medical clinic where Mary’s an administrative secretary who occasionally finds a refuge in Tom and Gerri’s happy home. The mildly comic aspect of the coincidence is acknowledged now and again as part of the surface banter that passes for society with this couple. Right away you have to wonder what made Leigh tag this almost too comfortable pair with the names of a cartoon cat and mouse. The family in question is headed by Tom and Gerri (Jim Broadbent and Ruth Sheen), the complacently settled husband and wife who would seem to occupy the center of the film.
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In the last scene, the last shot, bereft of the glow of good looks she had in the spring and summer, Mary is looking helplessly out at us from an abyss of isolation at the dinner table with some people she mistook for family. It hurts, it’s embarrassing, and sometimes it’s ugly. It’s not pleasant watching Manville bare her soul. All her fading beauty does is lead her astray. When she tells a Hollywood interviewer that Another Year is “about hearts and minds and heads and souls” and “the stuff of life,” she’s also giving expression to the stuff of her performance, the hopeful highs and desperate lows of a lonely middle-aged woman who is too pretty for her own good. The only problem is that the best actress wasn’t even in the running.Īs Mary in Mike Leigh’s film journey through the four seasons, Lesley Manville is in a class by herself. This year no one was surprised that the Best Actress Oscar went to Natalie Portman for Black Swan.
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What film won Best Picture that year? Gladiator. From the Academy, nothing, not so much as a nomination. In 1999, however, Leigh performed a stunning tour de force with TopsyTurvy, one of the great films of the 1990s, for which he won both Best Director and Best Picture - from the New York Film Critics. It’s fair to say that some moviegoers may find them as cringe-inducing, for different reasons, as I find Oscar night, and Another Year is no exception. Leigh’s thorny, difficult, slice-of-gritty-life films are not the sort that ring bells in Tinseltown. I experienced no major cringing fits, though it was touch and go when James Franco turned up as Marilyn Monroe.Īs for the Academy’s judgments, with the one glaring exception I’m addressing here, most of the high-end 2010 Oscars went to the right people, notably 73-year-old onetime stammerer David Seidler who accepted the Best Original Screenplay Oscar for The King’s Speech with his quip about being “a late bloomer.” Nominated in the same category for Another Year was Mike Leigh, who has had a smattering of Academy recognition, one Best Picture nomination ( Secrets and Lies) and two for Best Director ( Secrets and Lies and Vera Drake). And to be honest, the hour or so I saw of it wasn’t all that bad. Worse still are the politically motivated or simply thoughtless misjudgments like the major oversight this column is about, and for that reason I thought it only fair to watch at least some of Sunday night’s big show. I have a low tolerance for the glitzy overkill, the scripted jokes, and all those nauseating musical flourishes and fanfares when the envelope-openers are announced and again when the winners are named. Having been warned by doctors that cringing is harmful to my health, I usually avoid watching the Academy Award festivities.