As I write this, hanging on the wall facing me, is my one and only Oscar collectable: a one-time-issue poster featuring the original promo art of each Best Picture from Wings (1928) to The Last Emperor (1987). I can never quite get over the fact that so few of the 61 movies are titles I care about. And in the 15 years of Oscar pictures since, the trend continues.
To satisfy my curiosity about why that is, I recently re-examined all the Best Picture winners—the whole bunch, all 75—to make a fresh judgment.
A note: Each category is listed chronologically, not by the relative worth of the film. Here's how those Bests break down for me:
The Pantheon
All Quiet on the Western Front (1930). From the great German World War I novel, this was the most innovative film of the new talking era. It pioneered the use of mobile cameras, multiple angles and all of the state-of-the-art cinematic devices of the times.
Grand Hotel (1932). Made before the infamous Production Code censored realism, this was the first great "adult" talkie, set in a cosmopolitan Weimar Berlin hotel. Note especially, Joan Crawford as the young German forced to sell her soul to an American robber baron. Despite countless imitations, this is the archetype.
It Happened One Night (1934). Talk about great "adult" pictures, this raucous road comedy is still great entertainment. Yes, Clark Gable's bare chest really did hurt the undershirt industry. During the Depression this picture was a landmark of good cheer.
Mutiny on the Bounty (1935). Everything a historical epic should be—factual, exciting, dramatic, forever relevant. Gable became the most dominant male screen icon of the talkies, redefining heroism as mutineer Fletcher Christian.
Rebecca (1940). Alfred Hitchcock, in his American movie debut, made a great picture. The definitive screen Gothic. And who plays Rebecca? Nobody. She's Laurence Olivier's dead first wife.
Casablanca (1943). Warner Brothers hugely entertaining World War II propaganda flick is at the very top of everyone's Oscar list. In spite of its dated origins, this picture never stops entertaining us.
The Best Years of Our Lives (1946). Some later critics dismiss this moving portrait of postwar America as "dated." No way! The saga of returning war veterans can still bring an audience to tears. Disabled vet Harold Russell—long after a spokesman for veterans of all wars—deservedly won both a best supporting actor and special honorary Oscar for his role.
All About Eve (1950). Writer-director, Joseph Mankiewicz's bitchy, behind-the-scenes Broadway drama won against one of the greatest movies of all times—Sunset Boulevard. That said, it is still one of Oscars' best acted, most entertaining pictures.
From Here to Eternity (1953). One of Hollywood's most amazing achievements was this cleaned-up version of James Jones' violent, oversexed portrait of pre-World War II army life. This was the kind of book that movies in those days would normally never touch. Great ensemble of actors—including the reinvented Frank Sinatra and Ernest Borgnine.
On the Waterfront (1954). The year after Eternity came another black-and-white masterpiece about people on the edge. It's interesting that the Academy would choose such a stark, brutal and real movie over the standard Technicolor Eisenhower-era gloss.
The Bridge on the River Kwai (1957). I can watch David Lean's allegorical World War II epic as often as any film I've seen. This great jungle fighting action-adventure and powerful antiwar tract is one of a kind. The only stain on its reputation was Columbia's elimination of writers Carl Forman and Michael Wilson from the credits because they were blacklisted. (Since corrected.)
Lawrence of Arabia (1962). Director Lean topped Kwai with this stunning film about ego and power, madness and heroism, sunsets and sandstorms.
Tom Jones (1963). Many of the same American Academy voters who had honored Olivier's Hamlet just 15 years before must have been a little shocked at this adaptation of an 18th century British novel, probably read by none of them. Raunchy, crude, outrageous, hilarious—the heir to The Goon Show and precursor of Monty Python.
Midnight Cowboy (1969). Rated X under the original MPAA Code. The Academy recognized this film as the culmination of stylish European cinema of the '60s with its jump cuts, zooms, subliminal flashbacks and -forwards, mixing black and white and color. That dates it a little, but it's still the best way to tell a sad little story of a couple of losers you might otherwise never give a damn about.
The Godfather (1972). Oscar recognized the greatness of Francis Coppola's epic gangster saga, but gave the directing award to Bob Fosse for Cabaret (a rare split). Neither Coppola nor the Brando/Pacino/Caan/Duval casting were the studio's first choices. Can you imagine this material with a different director or cast? At the time it was unimaginable that any gangster picture could surpass it, and then two years later came…
The Godfather, Part Two (1974). My choice for the top of Oscar's bests. The story of the Corleone family's rise at the start of the 20th century, juxtaposed against its tragic betrayals in the 1950s. Brilliant, non-linear filmmaking.
One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest (1975). Ken Kesey's popular '60s novel about the nobility of insanity "in a world gone mad" is pretty dated stuff. But Czech director Milos Forman turns the asylum into a fantastic actors' workshop and cast it perfectly with Jack Nicholson. It's one of Oscar's greatest acting movies. (Is it just me, or is the equally great Cool Hand Luke—1967—the same story?)
Annie Hall (1977). Woody Allen's angst on screen and in real life annoys me so much that my appreciation of this truly romantic and sexy comedy had actually diminished. Then I saw it again recently, and I can confirm it is still the Valentine of the Oscars.
Amadeus (1984). Milos Forman's second Oscar picture is a feast of film-going pleasures. The Peter Shaffer play about the art of the slovenly, declasse young Mozart vs. the cultural snobbery of dilettante composer Salieri is great audience fare. And the casting of familiar-looking, American-sounding nonstars defuses any highbrow sentiment, making it a great crowd-pleaser.
The Silence of the Lambs (1991). Dr. Lechter's gourmet cookbook, complete with "fava beans and a nice Chianti," is still a scrumptiously macabre thriller. One question: Why doesn't Director Jonathan Demme want to entertain us anymore?
Unforgiven (1992). A big winner in its year, Clint Eastwood's taut western is not exactly the best film of that genre. Nor is it quite in the same league as From Here to Eternity, or for that matter, Silence of the Lambs. But it plays awfully well since the decade ago, when I first saw it. Great, complex script, beautifully acted and directed by Clint.
Schindler's List (1993). Another way to categorize Oscars is by listing them according to their Big Important Event choices (or, "Oscar is good for you"). Most of those, which obviously are not in this category, are even duller than ever now. Steven Spielberg's character-driven Holocaust tale is in a class by itself. Artful. Passionate. Depressing and uplifting at the same time.
Good Enough
Wings (1928). The only silent film on the list and the very first Best Picture. Director William Wellman was a World War I Air Force veteran, and he understood the heroism and fear of those early pilots-warriors. The air-to-air combat footage is so good it established the basic filming technique for all movies to come.
The Great Ziegfeld (1936). A truly entertaining biopic about the legendary promoter-producer who took pride in showcasing the most beautiful women in the world and couldn't keep his hands off them. Believe it or not, that is a source of good dramatic conflict. As watchable as any showbiz biography ever made.
The Lost Weekend (1945). The strangest of the Oscar bests. Billy Wilder's choice of Charles Jackson's unflinching novel about a drunk hitting bottom was very daring. This was the year World War II was ending, and most of Hollywood's output was, as you'd expect, either related to wartime America, or entertainment to help forget it. It's an actor's tour de force for Ray Milland, and he got an Oscar for it.
Hamlet (1948). There was a great postwar embrace of all things British, and Oscar was in a highbrow phase. (That year The Red Shoes was also nominated.) Olivier starred in and directed a good brooding Hamlet, in this version truly the "sweet prince of indecision."
All The King's Men (1949). Robert Rossen's stylish adaptation of the best-selling novel by Robert Penn Warren about a famous southern demagogue named Willie Stark (really Huey Long).
Ben-Hur (1959). The best movie from an awful book and a not-great silent movie. William Wyler gave it spirit with style, grace and lots of action. I could never understand why critics put down Charlton Heston, who at the time was perfect type for this kind of role—angry, bold and redeemable.
The Apartment (1960). Billy Wilder's overpraised comedy was a winner, but considering its insidious theme and unsympathetic characters—a nerd and a pushover—it feels more like payback for great films he didn't win for, Sunset Boulevard and Some Like It Hot. Watch it now for the triumph of a great American screen actor, Fred MacMurray. 1960 was a year of much better movies: Elmer Gantry, Psycho and The Magnificent Seven.
West Side Story (1961). I love the Bernstein-Sondheim score, and I shed a tear for Natalie Wood every time I see it. But, face it, this is the ultimate guilty pleasure. Let's not put it in the time capsule.
My Fair Lady (1964). Acknowledgment of technical excellence for not screwing up a great musical, based on an already filmed great play, George Bernard Shaw's Pygmalion. For me, this is the best of the Oscar musicals.
In The Heat of the Night (1967). Not exactly an edgy film now, nor as shocking as the post-French Connection stuff. But in 1967 a cop thriller set in the Jim Crow South with a black hero was a big deal. Rod Steiger as the decent redneck cop won Best Actor.
The French Connection (1971). This is why I love the Oscar list. Here is a profane, slammed together, cops-on-the-street, true crime saga. This kind of film had been made before by Hollywood, the genre was unmentionable around the Academy. This movie also stands out as an early example of the decade of the best American filmmaking to date.
Rocky (1976). The movie, like its author-star, came out of nowhere and recycled itself so often it went from franchise to cliché. If "Yo Adrienne!" once rivaled "Stella" as the hairy-armpit love call, it has by now declined to parody. And yet, looking again, I still felt its tug.
Kramer vs. Kramer (1979). One of the most technically perfect of Oscar movies. (Small, intimate stories require cinematic excellence, too.) Writer-director Robert Benton used style extraordinaire (the end of the marriage as a series of dissolves covering the dumping of bureau drawers full of memories) over substance. The best movie ever about "sensitive new age guys."
Ordinary People(1980). Alvin Sargent's script is better than Judith Guest's suburban-tragic novel. Robert Redford has only demonstrated such directing skill one other time—with the underrated, but even better, Quiz Show (1994).
Terms of Endearment (1983). Despite the soapy elements, Terms holds up very nicely because of its superb cast.
Platoon (1986). Better when it was first released because it was the brave little movie about the unpopular war. It has diminished somewhat, partly because Oliver Stone and Charlie Sheen carry too much personal baggage. But it is superior filmmaking all the way, with harsh, brilliant images of the horror of combat.
Titanic (1997). I remember being upset that it beat two better movies—LA Confidential and Boogie Nights. But watching it again, I have to give it its due. James Cameron overwhelmed us with grand cinematic skill. The romantic story on the great big doomed ship pushes all of our buttons, and since it's told with great style, it should.
Shakespeare in Love (1998). An Oscar-is-good-for-you picture that's supremely entertaining in spite of itself. Besides being a delightful romantic romp, it provides a fascinating modern-filtered look at 17th century stagecraft and city life. Of course, the incidents depicted have absolutely no bearing on the life of the real William Shakespeare.
A Beautiful Mind (2001). Ron Howard did a terrific job with its intelligent, though heavily fictionalized account of the complicated life of manic depressive genius John Nash. This was not an easy story to tell on screen, but for me it worked because of a solid cinematic structure (not a boring moment), and that fine performance by Russell Crowe.
On the Bubble
Cavalcade (1933). I'm barely impressed. This is actually an early-'30s, big-screen Masterpiece Theater, and it's not hard to see why the very new Oscar would want to suck up to the classy British theater of the day. It would take Academy voters a little while longer to realize that world's best pictures were coming out of those back lots around the corner.
The Life of Emile Zola (1937). The big-budget Warner biopic about the great French author and lawyer has not worn well. Since probably nobody in the picture's American audience had ever read a Zola novel, including, it appears, the screenwriters, the famed author comes off as literary Clarence Darrow. Paul Muni, who plays Zola, is all rolling eyebrows and fake accent.
You Can't Take It With You (1938). A very popular movie based on Kauffman and Hart's equally successful Depression-themed, screwball comic play. But this movie is a cheat. I could never understand why Frank Capra and his writer, Robert Riskin, made so many cuts and changes in such a perfect-of-kind play. The picture is neither funnier nor more cinematic. Amazing how many Oscar voters settled for this.
Gone With the Wind (1939). Time to put those myths to rest. Wind may have been the favorite movie of its generation, but it is far from the best. For a little more than one of its three-plus hours, Clark Gable commands the screen with the impact of the true star he was, as the heroic Rhett Butler. But almost everything else about this picture is dull, annoying or offensive.
How Green Was My Valley (1941). Valley was a best-selling novel about the hard lives of Welsh coal miners. It got a Best Picture but is nobody's best work.
Mrs. Miniver (1942). As popular a wartime film as next year's Casablanca, with the same kind of "hang in there" spirit. But looking at it as any more than an artifact of its times is useless. Even the fine director William Wyler couldn't infuse more than the propaganda it was. Greer Garson won an acting Oscar, but her mannered style does not wear well.
Going My Way (1944). A couple of priests, a lot of blarney, an ensemble of singing Hollywood brats, a cause ("Save the orphanage"), that great, goofy song ("Swingin' on a Star"), and the collared Crosby as choir master. Now it's tolerable entertainment, and the best of this category of stiffs.
An American in Paris (1951). This was a choreographer's movie in every way, and many of Gene Kelly's dances are still delightful. But the long, climactic ballet with Kelly and Leslie Caron, now seems … long. The "expressionistic," neo-Parisian sets look clunky, too. A year later came the great Kelly musical, Singin' in the Rain, but, alas, no Oscar.
Marty (1955). The low-budget, starless Marty had started off as a one hour, live TV drama, but it ended up being a turning point in Hollywood history. Suddenly TV became the breeding ground for movie talent—actors, writers, directors—for the next decade. As for the Oscar-winning Marty, it now plays like a so-so little slice of life drama.
Gigi (1958). I could never figure what the big deal was about this MGM musical and its international cast. This story about a young courtesan-in-training (who, as far as I can tell, is still a virgin!), who falls in love in turn-of-the-century Paree, is a huge bore.
The Sound of Music (1965). From the standard of sheer audience acclaim, The Sound of Music is a quintessential Oscar picture, and nothing I say here will take one viewer from its vast audience.
A Man for All Seasons (1966). In the mid-60's, the greatest surge of innovative cinema was coming out of England—this was the year of Blow-Up. But that film didn't even get an Oscar nomination. Instead, this history lesson about Sir Thomas More by Robert Bolt won Best Picture and a case full of other Oscars. Critics claiming the Academy was out of step were right.
Patton (1970). Like everybody else, I was blown away by George C. Scott's performance. Then, for years, I could barely remember what went on during its three hours. Seeing it again, I realized it was only about the controversial general's tactics and leadership intercut with lots of battle scenes involving no one I cared about.
The Sting (1973). I remember liking this flim-flam comedy when it came out. Now I'm disappointed. It seemed ponderously paced, even with the ragtime score. The director and, especially, the studio, wanted us never to forget the macho chemistry that these guys had—for each other. Compounding these images is the absence of any romantic leading lady. There aren't even any pretty girls.
The Deer Hunter (1978). This is one I'll bet some Oscar voters would like to take back. And, not necessarily because it's a terrible picture; it isn't. The Deer Hunter alleges to be a realistic portrait of a couple of guys who go to fight in Vietnam and suffer the worst kind of post-combat syndrome. Thousands of veterans screamed foul. This is too bad, since in spite of its irresponsible treatment of history, this movie has some brilliant sequences.
Rain Man (1988). Savant roles are like drunks and addicts for actors who want to strut their chops, but, quite frankly, I can find no other reason for sitting through this sentimental bilge than Tom Cruise. As a reluctant caretaker for a troublesome, handicapped brother, his pain is real—unlike anything else onscreen.
Forrest Gump (1994). When you look at the Oscars as a century's worth of notable movies, you discover that the ones that endure tell the best stories. Forrest Gump has no story (neither does Rain Man). Gump is a curious mixture of Candide and Gomer Pyle, with two elements to pump up its thin narrative. The computer images of placing Forrest in scenes with the likes of Richard Nixon are all dated by now. CGI has advanced by light years since '94.
Braveheart (1995). Mel Gibson's remarkably economical medieval battle epic is a nice relief from Rain Man and Driving Miss Daisy. But it's too long, again, for such a little story, and it blatantly copies the much better Spartacus. The script is downright homophobic in its portrayal of the villainous cowardly prince. No Lawrence of Arabia, this.
The English Patient (1996). Like the Seinfeld characters who debated it, I'm still of two minds on this one. Some sequences are as individually powerful as any in screen history. But its classical novelistic style begins seductively and ultimately makes me yawn.
American Beauty (1999). Dazzling stylistically and superbly cast and acted, it's easy to see where its accolades came from. It always seemed a strange choice for the traditional Academy member. Now I know my instincts were correct, and I'd like to re-screen it for those patrons to see if they're not just the littlest bit offended by the movie's virulent rejection of all traditional family values. Just about the nastiest, most cynical movie ever made.
Gladiator (2000). As Braveheart imitated Spartacus, Gladiator imitates Braveheart imitating Spartacus … and Ben-Hur. Big, empty, with computer effects for sets and locations, derivative in the worst sense, Gladiator was a movie for audiences whose idea of action films came from computer games. The only reason this is not in the Dogs category is Russell Crowe.
Chicago (2002). The postmillennium output of movies has been truly undistinguished to date. Naturally an Industry-run awards program like Oscar must reflect that. If the winners in the various categories are the best, in times like these, what does that say about movies in general? Chicago may have been a logical choice for the voters last year. There were no instant classics; no American picture came close to real critical acclaim. So that leaves Chicago, a Bob Fosse musical. Chicago had this really off-the-wall script about murderous femme fatales who get away with it, and the hot-shot lawyers who get them off. Take a look at Chicago five years from now. Write to me then and tell me that you love it. Dare you.
The Dogs
The Broadway Melody (1929). Older movies sometimes deserve a different standard of evaluation, especially early talkies. But this poor excuse for a musical has absolutely nothing left to remotely appreciate. No memorable songs, no stars you ever heard of, lame choreography.
Cimmaron (1931). The worst Best Picture, by far. For years, no one could see this western because of a deteriorating nitrate negative. Then it was restored and finally viewed by contemporary film scholars and movie buffs. I can imagine the embarrassed groans—badly acted, full of "staged" interiors, almost without action, and a script that reeks of bad dialogue and offensive stereotypes.
Gentlemen's Agreement (1947). An Oscar-is-good-for-you drama, now basically unwatchable. WASP Gregory Peck goes "undercover," applying to country clubs and the like while pretending to be a Jew. Even its director, Elia Kazan later declared it "dated and toothless."
The Greatest Show on Earth (1952). I have some memory of seeing Cecil B. DeMille's circus epic as a child and loving it. But here's a movie that got by on the big top authenticity and the congeniality of its cast. The script is ludicrous. Oscar's face would be redder than Jimmy Stewart's clown nose if anybody took another look.
Around the World in 80 Days (1956). Seen now, it really shows the producer's greatest achievement was selling this big, empty bag to the moviegoing public. Nobody in it acts, because they have nothing to play, unless making the train or the balloon on time is dramatic or funny.
Oliver! (1968). This misreading of Oliver Twist is, for me, near the very bottom of the Dogs pile. A musical of Dickens' grim, socially muckraking novel was never a great idea, but Broadway usually gets away with such bilge. Columbia saw it as the next Sound of Music, even classier as a UK co-production. But the Brits chose Hollywood over Dickens by serving up the ultimate moppet show.
Chariots of Fire (1981). Remember the accolades? Anyone with even the vaguest memory of enjoying this really ought to look again. The race between the deeply religious Christian and an agnostic Jew is utterly without conflict. A movie of lasting insignificance.
Gandhi (1982). Richard Attenborough's bio-pic of Mahatma Gandhi is Oscar-is-good-for-you ad nauseum. There are a few stunning scenes early in the film of apartheid in South Africa, and Ben Kingsley did give an Oscar performance. But Attenborough directed with too many exclamation points. He bashes its nobility over our heads.
Out of Africa (1985). To Meryl Streep: "What's a great actress like you doing out here in the bush talking in that funny accent?"
The Last Emperor (1987). Bernardo Bertolucci's great films like The Conformist (1970) and Last Tango in Paris (1972) were ignored by the Academy. Then came The Last Emporer. Exotic, lavishly produced, authentic looking—shot inside China's Forbidden City—it was among the best-looking movies ever. It is also impossible for me to watch all the way through again.
Driving Miss Daisy (1989). Why has everyone forgotten this picture won an Oscar? Because it's an utterly insignificant movie, a stodgy adaptation of a two-character play about an old Southern woman whose only interesting character beat is that she's also a Jew, and her almost-as-old longtime black chauffer. Well-acted, genteel … but an embarrassment on a Best-anything list.
Dances With Wolves (1990). This year, with the excellent western Open Range, I have finally forgiven Kevin Costner's completely undeserved praise for this movie. I didn't like Wolves when it was new, and it still deserves to be in this category. Its tiny story and bloated length are indicative of an undisciplined director wishing to dazzle. The Academy seemed to have forgotten that A Man Called Horse and Little Big Man covered everything in this movie so much better.