The Litter Of the Picks

By Tony Kornheiser

Sunday, March 16 1997; Page F01
The Washington Post 

It's that time again. Tony Kornheiser's Oscar Picks.

SHOW ME . . . THE ENVELOPE! Hahaha. (That was my "Jerry Maguire" joke.)

Every great columnist has his Signature Column, a repeating event for which he is known, the
column readers clamor for. Art Buchwald has his Thanksgiving Day in Paris column. Dave
Barry has exploding cows and toilets. Russell Baker has those columns with his dog.

His dog?

Yeah, columns where he's traveling with his dog.

That's John Steinbeck, you imbecile.

Whatever.

Anyway, I am known for my Oscar Picks column, that yearly romp in which I charmingly
pontificate about the best movies of the year even though I have seen very few of them (who
has time to go to the movies?), a column famous for its wit and urbanity and whose only
small flaw is that it is, year after year, dreadfully unfunny. I hate it. I never have anything to
say. Yet I am tethered to it.

As soon as the nominations are released in February, the mail starts pouring in. "Dear Tony,
who are you picking for Best Supporting Actress this year? I was amazed at the subtlety of
Joan Allen's performance in "The Crucible." But knowing you, Tony, I'd bet you're probably
partial to Juliette Binoche. Can't wait for the column."

Joan Allen, of course, I know from having seen her host "Good Morning, America" all these
years. But Juliette Binoche? Sounds like a French bad-breath spray. But I shall have to
compare her work to that of her predecessors in the noir oeuvre of Italian-influenced Gallic
cinema verite.

Man, I would love to torpedo this column. 

My friend Gino says that the way to sink it is to write a column so bad, so choked with
mistakes and misinformation and bloated rhetoric that no one will ever ask for it again.

My first reaction was skepticism: Who'd notice the difference between that and my ordinary
column? My second reaction was outrage. I'm a responsible journalist. I am devoted to the
truth. How would I be any different from Jon Lovitz in "Saturday Night Fever?" "Fine," Gino
said. "Then keep doing this pathetic column every year until you die. And on your gravestone
it will say here lies Tony Kornheiser, a responsible journalist who kept writing crap about the
Oscars, so we're glad he's dead."

Hmm. 

When I think of my predicament, several sophisticated cinematic allusions spring to mind. It
is true that I am chained to this column like Tony Bennett and Sidney Greenstreet in "The
Defiant Ones." Still, I am not going to sink it, like what happened to Shelley Duvall in "The
Potemkin Adventure." I am going to press on, giving you, the reader, my most thoughtful
work so you, the reader, will continue to clamor for this here fine column next year.

This year, my pick for the best movie of the year is "Fargo," which is the story of an armored
car robbery, starring Adm. David Farragut, Larry Fortensky and McLean Stevenson as
"Happy," the talking tonsil.

Best actor is that guy whatsizname, Ralph Fiennes, whose name is actually pronounced "Ray
Fhheyyuuhhh" or something. He is best known for his role in "Springtime for Schindler," the
Mel Brooks epic. Fiennes is nominated for "The English Patience," a documentary feature
about motor vehicle queues in London. 

Best actress is Frances X. McDormand, a onetime silent film star who played a pregnant cop
in "Fargo." You may recall her as Gene Kelly's co-star in the famous hoofer flick "Dances
With Wolves." 

Best supporting actor will go to Ed Norton in "Primal Fear," largely because the voters were
so impressed with the fact that Norton got such a late start acting, after working in a sewer
all those years.

Best Supporting Actress, clearly, Juliette Binoche. (Did I spell that right?)

Best Director is some European expatriate with an unpronounceable name who makes films
with incomprehensible plots. The director will have had a tragic childhood and will once have
been blacklisted for being a communist. He will wear a monocle and when he speaks, he will
launch little bits of spit all over you, but no one will care because he is a Tormented Genius.

I'm going to skip right over the other big prizes on the theory that the reader is more
interested in lesser-known categories such as the Best Dramatic Score, which will go to
"Hamlet" with a score of 11-4, and Best Art Direction, which will go to "The Birdcage,"
directed by Art Garfunkel.

We move to the prize for Best Live Action Short, a category I find compelling because it
encompasses the full breadth of the human experience, filmed as art but rooted in the intense
drama of human striving, and featuring the irreproducible intimacy of realism. The nominees
are . . . 

You can stop now, Tony. No one is reading anymore. 

Oh, good. 


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