1) It’s a silent movie 2) in black and white 3) with no-name lead actors, 4) no special effects, 5) a title that oozes pretension, 6) … and it’s French! And now the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences has to come along and drive the final nail in the coffin, nominating it for 10 Oscars.

Add up all these ingredients and you have the perfect recipe for the dullest, snootiest movie ever, right? That’s the trouble with selling people on “The Artist.”

Normal, non-pretentious people, that is, who don’t think sitting through a black and white movie is a badge of honor, like an artistic Purple Heart (the snob’s version of “taking one for the team”: watching a long, boring movie so you can tell your friends about it).

And that title?  It should have been called “The Comedian.” Or “The Entertainer.” Anything but “The Artist” (that’s “Artiste” in French — mon Dieu!).

How does one convince normal people to see “The Artist?” What if I told you that it scored a 97 percent “fresh” rating on Rotten Tomatoes?  Nah?

Critics say it is the most likely nominee to take home the golden statuette. Bookies picked it as the odds-on favorite.

Still not interested?

That’s too bad. Because snooty title and lack of sound aside, it’s easily the best movie of the year — and the most entertaining.

Yes, a silent, black-and-white, French movie is more entertaining than the biggest special-effects blockbusters of the year. Even though it hearkens back to a style of film more than 80 years out of date, “The Artist” is the freshest, most original movie experience you are likely to have.

Funny thing is, what makes “The Artist” such a breath of fresh air isn’t the lack of sound or color.  It’s the absence of cynicism.

Snarky cynicism has taken hold of our culture like a face-hugger from the “Alien” franchise, planting embryos of despair and nihilism in our bodies to fester and grow until they emerge from our chests (and the chest-bursters’ faces are plastered with smirks reminiscent of Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert).

“The Artist” is a time machine to a simpler era — before cynicism had permeated the mainstream, when the movies didn’t try to tear down the values of their audiences or sucker-punch them with political messages from out of left field.

“The Artist” trades the contemporary entertainer’s jaded smirk for an infectious grin. That’s the simple secret to its success.  Its only agenda is to entertain. How revolutionary!

It does so by revealing to us the human spirit in all its elastic glory — its low points, but mostly its peaks. There is an underlying theme of man contending with changing technology, which couldn’t be more timely in the Age of the iPod/iPhone/iPad/iCloud, and thankfully it doesn’t conclude on a Luddite note.

One wonders whether the critics would have accepted “The Artist’s” old-fashioned virtues without the silent-movie gimmick. The art-house movie trappings gave the critics “permission” to embrace it. Set such a story in modern-day Hollywood, with contemporary spoken dialogue and in color, and they’d snort in derision.

But by pleasing the critics, “The Artist’s” creators risked alienating mainstream audiences — which would be a shame, since it is aimed straight at the sweet-spot of mainstream America.

The film is set in late ’20s Hollywood, the waning days of the silent-movie era, the plot a mash-up of “A Star is Born” and “Singin’ in the Rain.” The main character is George Valentin, a popular silent-movie star, portrayed by the amazingly expressive and captivating Jean Dujardin (justly favored to win this year’s Best Actor Oscar), a beefier, more comedic version of Gene Kelly.

Along comes the aptly named Peppy Miller (Berenice Bejo), a sassy wannabe actress with a big crush on the charming (and charmed) Valentin. So you see, it’s a love story as well as a comedy. Or rather, it’s two love stories: one between Valentin and Peppy Miller, and the other between them both and Hollywood. The supporting cast includes actors more familiar to American audiences such as Penelope Miller, James Cromwell, and John Goodman (who would have made a fabulous silent-era comedian).

Of course, the native languages of the various actors are irrelevant, since the movie has no spoken dialogue (though there is one fascinating sequence that uses actual sound in a very creative way). The jaunty musical soundtrack picks up the slack, and it’s such a delight that it helps you forget there’s no spoken dialogue.

Instead, the actors must express themselves through their faces, actions, and situations. It takes tremendous talent and charm to pull this off, and the cast have more than enough of each to rivet your attention for 100 minutes. I normally despise dancing in movies (second only to silence), but the brief bouts of tap-dancing in “The Artist” are so invigorating and so integral to the story that I actually looked forward to them.

I urge everyone not to wait until it comes out on home video but to watch this movie in a theater with an audience. I guarantee that it is the most unusual movie-going experience you will ever enjoy — better than 3D, dare I say. To watch the actors on the big screen enthrall us without any dialogue – no sound except for that charming movie music – well, I repeat, it has to be experienced for yourself, and in a theater.

As the movie opens, there’s a delicious anticipation in the quiet theater filled with other quiet people. Funny stuff starts happening, and you’re waiting to see, er, hear who will be the first to break the silence and laugh out loud. When a human voice finally shatters that quiet with a chuckle or a guffaw, there is a sense of relief all around.  And as if a dam burst, everyone is soon laughing uproariously together.

Without the frenzy of special effects on the screen, and without loud dialogue and explosions to mask their own obnoxiousness, The Artist almost shames audience members into refraining from talking out loud or studying their smart phones. The hush makes you feel like you’re in a church rather than a strip-mall multiplex. In its own orbit, at least, “The Artist” has single-handedly revived the vanishing joy of communal movie-watching.

I can’t wait to buy it on Blu-ray, but I feel sorry for anyone who watches “The Artist” for the first time at home. Without an audience and with all of the distractions of modern life, you simply won’t get the full benefit of the experience.

I have a theory about “The Artist” The lead actor is a popular French star. I imagine that he wanted to become a star in America. But he was told that his English isn’t good enough and his accent too thick (listen to him in interviews and you can sense that he lacks confidence in his English, though it’s not as bad as he seems to think it is).

How to share his enormous talent with American audiences without speaking English well? Why, make a silent comedy, that’s how! I don’t have any evidence to support this. But it’s my theory. You can share it if you want.

It’s odd that it took a team of French filmmakers to reintroduce America to the pleasures of old-fashioned Hollywood movies. Here’s hoping that Hollywood thanks them on Oscar night.

Why? It’s the culture, smarty-pants.

By “culture,” I don’t mean Washington, DC culture. I mean pop culture.

While the brightest and most talented conservatives pour into DC and pump out one study after another, endlessly debating arcane policy with a handful of other pinheaded intellectuals, the left has been busy consolidating their iron grip on the real reins of power — movies, TV, music, art.

If half the conservatives who pine to work at Heritage or Cato would only turn their ambitions to moviemaking and showrunning, conservatism might have a fighting chance.

As it is, you can move the musical chairs in DC around all you want, but if you don’t recapture the culture — or even a healthy slice of it — you may win a political battle or two now and then, but you’re destined to always play catch-up in the war long-term.

Read the full piece at Big Government.

It’s kind of a trick question.  Because if you control the culture, the government will follow.  (And no, the converse is not true – unless your government is a totalitarian state and your tastes run toward socialist realism.)

Anybody who believes movies and TV shows have no impact on our behavior ought to go tell the $800 billion advertising industry, because they’re just wasting their clients’ money.

For too long, supporters of a freer society have done little but grouse about the messages infused in our entertainment, while Hollywood has just calmly gone about its business, making the culture we all consume.

Well, if you want to influence the culture, you’ve got to create it.  Nobody should understand that more than those who champion free markets and individual liberty.

“It is not the critic who counts,” Teddy Roosevelt said.  “The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood…, who does actually strive to do the deeds.”

Last August, about two dozen young, up-and-coming filmmakers from all over the U.S., some from prominent film schools like Columbia and USC, strode into the arena we call The Filmmakers Workshop.  There was very little sweat, and no blood to speak of.

But the students weren’t given much time to just kick back and listen (or nap).  They dove right in, participating in a series of rigorous interactive sessions that roughly simulated the experience of working as a Hollywood filmmaker.

The focus wasn’t on woolly-headed theory but on practical, hard-nosed coaching, covering the gamut from concept development to distribution, dished by experienced professionals taking a brief respite from the trenches of Hollywood.

The workshop was organized by the Taliesin Nexus, a new nonprofit organization dedicated to increasing the diversity of Hollywood – diversity of thought, that is.

Classes took place on the UCLA campus, and students stayed in dorms and ate on campus.  Add up tuition, room and board, plus travel expenses, and how much did it cost each student?  Not one ruddy cent.

I can see you sitting there, thinking:  “That sounds really fantastic, Mr. Leigh.  I’m an aspiring filmmaker who has a short film or a screenplay under my proverbial belt, who also has a passion for liberty.  How does this affect me?”

Well, today is your lucky day, my proverbial friend.  This year we are opening the application process to the public.  Read to the end and find out how you can apply.

Our faculty last year featured 18 experienced professionals including:

Daisy Gardner:  Screenwriter and producer whose credits include South Park, Californication, and 30 Rock (for which she earned a WGA Award).

Josh Rader:  Development executive at MPower Pictures which is founded by Stephen McEveety, who has produced such great films as Braveheart, The Passion of the Christ and Immortal Beloved.

Jennifer Simpson:  Producer who headed up Reese Witherspoon’s production company and prior to that helped to develop many terrific films including The Sixth Sense and The Royal Tenenbaums.

David Steinberg:  Writer and director who penned American Pie II and the upcoming Puss in Boots (a Shrek spinoff), is writing Howard Stern’s reboot of Porky’s, and recently directed the comedy feature Miss Dial.

Craig Titley:  Screenwriter whose credits include Percy Jackson & The Olympians, Cheaper by the Dozen (with Steve Martin), and Star Wars:  The Clone Wars.

A few other faculty:

Ted Balaker and Paul Feine, who produce documentaries for Reason.TV, home of the Drew Carey Project and “free minds and free markets.”

Paul Guay, whose writing credits include Liar, Liar (starring Jim Carrey) and Hearbreakers (Sigourney Weaver).

Big Hollywood’s own Leigh Scott (no relation), who has directed 17 movies to date, including Transmorphers, The Dunwich Horror, and his latest opus, The Witches of Oz.

(For a complete list of last year’s faculty and schedule, go here.)

A major benefit of this kind of event is the networking, so Friday and Saturday nights of the workshop weekend were each capped with a party (or “conviviality,” as my co-director Patrick Reasonover likes to call them) where the students got to mingle with their colleagues, faculty, and other invited industry pros.

So what are we looking for in an applicant?  You should be able to demonstrate a genuine commitment and aptitude for a career in filmmaking.  (“Filmmaking” to us subsumes movies, TV, documentaries, video – any motion picture medium.)

You must have a film-related creative sample you can share with us, whether it be a short film, screenplay, documentary, or even a YouTube video.  You don’t have to be a film school student or graduate, though it helps.  It’s also advantageous to have worked in a creative field, either now or in the past.

So how do you apply, you ask?  Simple:  just go here and follow the instructions.

Good luck.  And welcome to the arena.

Maybe it’s the “bombs bursting” in the Star Spangled Banner, or the evening fireworks, or simply that the smell of barbeque in the afternoon reminds me of napalm (actually, it’s either victory, or lighter fluid).

—–

So when the wiener hits the grill, I’m hankering for some Heartbreak Ridge.  I’m weak-kneed for a little Where Eagles Dare.  I’m jonesing for a piece o’ that… Johnny Tremain.  (You try and find a good war movie that starts with a “J.”)

Most of all, I pine for Patton.  Few celluloid moments can top that iconic opening scene for patriotic bliss.  First off, you’ve got that humongous American flag backdrop.  And you’ve got the general himself in full fruit-salad regalia, delivering the greatest pep talk since Henry V’s St. Crispin’s Day speech.

The script, co-written by Francis Ford Coppola, is endlessly quotable.  “No bastard ever won a war by dying for his country.  He won it by making the other poor dumb bastard die for his country.”  “Rommel, you magnificent bastard, I read your book!”

And a personal favorite, which Patton cribbed from the French Revolution:  “L’audace, l’audace, toujours l’audace!“  Try saying that next time the wife nags you to get off the couch.

The movie is thick with ironies, not the least of which is that it was intended as an anti-war film.  Patton (the movie and the man) is a true American original, a human Rorschach test.

Liberals see in him a dangerous blow-hard who should be locked up; everybody else just wishes he were alive today and commanding in Afghanistan.  (And then on to Russia!)

Chinese premier Zhou Enlai studied Patton to learn about America’s character before his historic meeting with Richard Nixon.  I like to think that when the commie bastard realized what he was up against, he crapped his Mao suit.

But the show’s most ground-breaking achievement, the one that will rank it right up there with The Cosby Show, Ellen, and Joanie Loves Chachi, is that Red Eye is the first genuinely funny conservative show.  (Albeit more libertarian than traditional conservative.) 

—–

Never heard of Red Eye?  Maybe because it’s on at 3 AM EST.  Whether you’re an early-bird or an insomniac hooked on Poker After Dark, Red Eye will make you thank Al Gore for inventing the DVR.

Astonishingly, despite the witching-hour time slot, Red Eye has more viewers than any show on CNN, including its primetime lineup.

Red Eye’s affable host, Greg Gutfeld, was a longtime magazine editor whose posts included popular “lad” mags like Stuff, Maxim UK, and Blueboy.  He made the normally rocky transition from hard-bitten, ink-stained wretch to pixel-dusted, blow-dried blowhard without breaking a sweat (or a nail).

Full disclosure:  I knew Greg recently out of college, when we were both just starting to break into journalism (Greg had a skeleton key).

I remember those halycon days well:  whiling away the evenings in smoky cafes on the left bank of the Potomac, sipping absinthe and watching Crossfire.  I wrote an expressionistic novel called The Tropic of C-SPAN; Greg tried his hand at painting, until he ran out of space on his palm.

Greg  interned at the American Spectator, a somewhat gonzo conservative publication featuring hilarious writers Ben Stein and P.J. O’Rourke, whom we all looked up to in awe (Greg, literally).

Greg served as the assistant to R. Emmett Tyrell Jr., the magazine’s flamboyant editor, picking up editing tips and herpes along with Tyrell’s dry cleaning.

We thought the biggest problem the right faced was the “cool” deficit.  You know the drill — the right is Dean Wormer in Animal House, the left is John Belushi pouring mustard on his shirt.  (Of course, the right is also Belushi smashing the peacenik’s guitar, but I digress.)

Like most stereotypes popularized in the ’60s, it’s wrong.  Today’s right is all about expanding freedom, while the left has devolved into the scolding buzz-kill — “Don’t eat meat!  Don’t drive SUVs!  Stop killing people!”

Much of  Greg’s career has aimed to overturn, through example, this hoary shibboleth (whatever that means) that the left refuses to let go (because it’s really all they’ve got).

One weekend, Greg and I headed down to the Washington Mall for the annual Earth Day concert, headlined by Sting (naturally).  Greg had a huge stack of bumper stickers that Tyrell had printed up.  They read, “I [heart] baby seals” – only in lieu of the typical heart, there was the symbol of a playing-card club.  

—–

Greg and I wandered around the Mall which was literally blanketed with bong-hitting, tie-dyed hippies squatting cross-legged across the expansive lawn, like so many smoke-wreathed, rainbow-colored toads, grooving to the jazzy stylings of the ex-Police man.  And we proceeded to hand out those bumper stickers to every hippie in reach.

Funny thing is, people see what they want to see (especially liberals).  So their first reaction was usually a delighted squeal, hippie chicks exclaiming, “Oh, how cute!  I love baby seals!”

Then they’d look a little closer, and it would gradually dawn on their dope-and-ideology-befuddled brains what the sticker really meant.  But by the time their squeals of delight turned into howls of outrage, we were 20 yards away, handing out still more stickers.

Greg went on to an editing gig at Prevention magazine.  (He thought it was a trade publication for the condom industry.)  And I returned to my pa’s farm, giving up on my dreams of becoming the next Ann Coulter.  (The operation was just too expensive.)

Over the years, Greg’s star rose as he slept his way to the top.  No, he didn’t have sex with anyone, but he literally slept on Roger Ailes’ doorstep every night until Ailes hired Greg just to get him off his lawn.  (Fox News has long been a proud supporter of the homeless.  Hello, Glenn Beck!)

Greg has a talented supporting cast, whom he rewards with merciless teasing, insults, and tickle fights.  (These are the names of actual currencies circulated in certain parts of New York.)

Bill Shulz, who lists to the left, is Greg’s perky sidekick and comic foil.  He’s Alan Colmes to Greg’s Sean Hannity, Keith Richards to his Roger Daltrey, Tonto to his Don Quixote.

Then there’s “TV’s own Andy Levy” (don’t ask), who serves as the show’s quick-witted ombudsman, popping up at half-time and the end to correct its many mistakes (a truly Augean task).

—–

Two seats at the hallowed Red Eye table are reserved for a rotating cast of distinguished guests, ranging from the aforementioned Ann Coulter, to a puppet version of the New York Times called Pinch, to Oderus Urungus, the show’s costumed “intergalactic correspondent,” who moonlights as the front man for “shock rock” band GWAR.

You never know what you’ll get what you watch Red Eye:

- Animated robots in a sauna room discussing Media Matters and lotion.

- Greg “drawing the news,” usually in the form of unicorns, griffins, and other mythical beasts (like Obama’s leadership skills).

- Frequent references to houseboys, underground bunkers, and Vermont Teddy Bears (that last one may have been a commercial).

- Greg’s now-trademark double-entendre introductions.  (E.g.:  “If intelligence were a border fence, illegals would jump him daily.”)

Funny?  Of course not.  But for a right-leaning show made by uptight, humorless Brahmins wearing bow ties and spats, not half-bad.  And since the other contenders are so lame (tops until now was Keith Olbermann, deliriously subverting the left a la Colbert), it will have to do.

DVRs are gradually rendering time slots meaningless.  But come on, FNC, Red Eye deserves to be shown earlier.

Just imagine if it went head-to-head with Jay Leno and David Letterman… well, I’d still watch World Poker Tour reruns on ESPN2.  But I would continue to TiVo Red Eye.

On Wednesday night American Idol aired its season finale.  The true star of the evening wasn’t the endless parade of aging music groups trotted out to croak medleys of their ancient hits.  Nor was it either of the two finalists anxiously hoping to be crowned the newest American Idol.

No, it was Simon Cowell, the most popular judge on the panel, who is leaving the show.  So integral is he to its success that fans and producers alike worry the show won’t be the same without him.

When American Idol first premiered, nobody would have predicted that Simon Cowell would become its favorite judge.  Instead, they might have pointed to the cloyingly supportive (and creatively medicated) Paula Abdul, who never had a negative word to say to any contestant.

The reason is very simple:  Simon Cowell is the most conservative personality on primetime network TV.  And America is a center-right country, fertile ground for Simon’s point of view.

The show itself is a merciless meritocracy.  Failing singers are inexorably weeded out, one by one.  It’s pure survival of the fittest, nary a government  handout or stimulus in sight.  In the end, there can be only one.  (Cue Queen’s “Who Wants to Live Forever.”)

But the judge whom contestants most want to please isn’t the kindest one on the panel, but rather, the most insulting, the king of mean himself:  Simon Cowell.  And no, this desire to please Simon isn’t some weird new form of battered wife syndrome.  It’s a wholesome thirst for a magical elixir sadly lacking in America of late, harder to find than Coke with real sugar — a bracing tonic called the unvarnished truth.

Most of American Idol’s contestants are fairly young, products of a contemporary school system that hands out A’s like Chiclets, that’s focused on falsely pumping up a student’s “self-esteem” like one of those tacky foil mylar balloons (and just as empty), releasing kids into the real world believing they are just as good as anybody else.  When, in fact, they aren’t.

It is a mathematical fact that half of all kids are below average.  And 90% of all children are less talented than the top 10%.  Shocking, but true.  Young people would know this, if the schools bothered to teach them math instead of how America was stolen from the Indians, Mexicans, and Palestinians.

Awards are handed out today for merely showing up.  In order to avoid hurting any child’s feelings, some youth soccer leagues have stopped keeping score.   Schools are banning dodgeball and even tag, because it may create ” self-esteem issues among weaker and slower children.”  Kids are coddled like delicate Faberge eggs with egos more fragile than Roman Polanski’s moral compass.

This background might help explain why so many talentless people try out for American Idol — and then appear shocked when they are told they suck. Surely some of them are just kidding.

But a surprising number of the really awful ones seem deadly serious.  And quite often, they have a posse of family members and friends backing them up, assuring them after they’ve been rejected, “That’s okay, sweetie, you’re the best, they don’t know what they’re talking about.”

The viewers at home can see that these “friends” are doing them no favors.  In fact, a true friend would tell them, well, the truth.

The contestants may not always realize it, but Simon Cowell is their truest friend.  They’d be better off if they’d heard from their friends or family rather than Simon that they sound “like a cat jumping off the Empire State Building” (to quote one of Simon’s classic put-downs), before they made public asses of themselves on TV’s highest-rated show.

But America’s epidemic of unearned self-esteem is our entertainment gain.  Over the years Simon has gotten off some pretty good lines at their expense (all part of a rigorous education).

For instance, ” You have just invented a new form of torture.”  Or how about “It’s a beautiful song, when you’re not singing it.”  And my favorite:  “If you had lived 2,000 years ago and sung like that, I think they would have stoned you.”

No effort to soften the blow.  No desire to spare anyone’s feelings.  Just a fierce fidelity to blunt honesty.

And yet Simon genuinely believed he was doing the contestants a greater service than those who pulled their punches, who humored their delusions of grandeur which, we all know, will result in nothing but more heartache down the road, waste more of their lives chasing an impossible dream.

A dose of cold realism is more compassionate than a shot of false hope.  Few things separate conservatives from liberals more than where you stand on that.

And so a funny thing happened as Simon lambasted one tone-deaf buffoon after another.  The contestants shrugged off knee-jerk praise emanating from more diplomatic judges like Randy Jackson, Ellen DeGeneres, and (especially) Paula Abdul.  (Although Randy has gotten tougher this season, perhaps in anticipation of Simon’s departure.)

When it was Simon’s turn, they listened intently.  A positive word from him was greeted with tears of joy.  A lesson in economics:  parsimonious with his praise, Simon raised its value higher than the more promiscuous compliments generously dealt by the other judges.

A bravo from Simon was like a unexpected monsoon shower in the Gobi desert.  That’s because everyone knows Simon doesn’t BS.  Simon is like New York City in the song:  If you could make it with him, you could make it anywhere.

If you need further evidence of Simon’s conservatism, look no further than the recent United Kingdom general election.  Simon Cowell, one of Britain’s most influential music moguls, came out in support of David Cameron from the (gasp) Conservative Party.

For years Brits have relied on the false assurances of Tony Blair and his successor Gordon Brown that the government could keep spending beyond its means and a day of reckoning will never come.

Simon sounded more like a tea partier than an entertainer when he told the Sun (a right-leaning tabloid), “Tackling the national debt mountain as soon as possible is vital.  Delaying the pain for future generations is suicidal.  We’ve got to start getting the deficit down right now, not next year.”

And here he sounds downright Reaganesque:  ”[The government] should give hope to the younger generation to build on our wonderful heritage.  It should inspire us to get out there and create and invent.

“And then it should get right out of the way.” [Italics in the original.]

The UK public agreed with Simon, voting Cameron in as the new British Idol Prime Minister.  The truth may not be what we hope for, but it’s the best medicine for what ails you.

Five years of secret hatches.  Ancient four-toed statues.  Teleporting cabins.  A string of lottery numbers popping up everywhere.  Weird pseudo-science. Steampunk technology.  The Dharma Initiative.  (Remember that?)  And what the heck was a polar bear doing on a tropical island?

“Lost” was a major brain tease, too.  Naming so many of the characters after philosophers (Locke, Rousseau, Hume, etc.) was a stroke of genius – paper-thin genius, I later learned, as few of the characters had much to do with their namesakes.  (My favorite character name was Charlotte Staples Lewis, i.e., C. S. Lewis – incidentally, his middle name really was Staples.)

As the show’s intellectual promise faded, my interest flagged, but it really took a tumble during Season 5, when time travel, the last refuge of a desperate sci-fi writer, reared its inevitable head.

Time travel is like plutonium:  it must be handled with great care, and a little goes a very long way.  But in Season 5, “Lost” got hooked big-time on time-travel, sometimes hitting that pipe a dozen times in a single episode.

The show also lost its way when it violated the first rule of castaway stories, aka the Gilligan’s Island principle:  never leave the island.  Once you leave the island, you’ve lowered the stakes and betrayed the premise.

In the case of “Lost,” first they’re trapped on the island, then they leave the island, then they come back, then they try to leave….  Sorry, I fell asleep while writing that.  See what I mean?

Despite its frequent forays into pseudo-science, “Lost” is essentially a fantasy story. It may seem counterintuitive, but the more outlandish or surreal the events in a fantasy story, the more tightly you must stick to a set of rules.  Even if they are rules you’ve made up, they’ve got to make sense.

Without a set of easily graspable rules and limitations on your characters’ abilities, your audience will think, anything is possible.  And if anything is possible, nothing is at stake, in which case, nobody will care.

And that’s what happened.  As things in “Lost” got wackier, you realized at some point, it just wasn’t worth the effort to keep up.  Especially as it became clear there was no way they were going to find a logical explanation for all the crazy stuff.

The sheer volume of coincidences alone were improbable beyond belief.  And so the promise of a non-metaphysical Unified Theory vanished (as the ending only confirmed).

My wife knew it too, deep down, but tried desperately to keep her disbelief suspended, like a kid who doesn’t want to stop believing in Santa Claus even as he watches Dad put the presents under the tree.

Echoing the faith versus reason theme that underpinned the series, she still had faith there was a reason behind it all.  Plus, she thought Sawyer was cute.

And so I kept faith with her, keeping her company as she tuned in to the show, like going to church with your family even after you’ve become an atheist.  But her faith in the show was fading, too.

The last straw was the Temple.  We were promised that Season 6 would wrap up all the loose ends.  But instead of answers, we were getting a whole new ball of frayed yarn to puzzle over.

Questions are fine; you don’t watch “Lost” if you’re allergic to ambiguity.  But to introduce a brand-new setting and group of characters, just when we were expecting things to wind down?

It raises the wrong kinds of questions.  Such as:  After years of exploring a small island, how did the Losties miss an entire temple complex?

At least the tension level in our household diminished during “Lost” viewings.  We actually spoke to each other sometimes.  And not just during the commercials.

But I knew a Rubicon had been crossed when, during the last 15 minutes of the penultimate episode last week, I asked my wife what she thought of some development and got no response.  Turning, I could see that she was fast asleep.

Oh, sure, we still watched the final episode all the way through, for old time’s sake if nothing else.  The wife insured her old enthusiasm with a pot of coffee.

As a friend said, he could have had a relationship over the past six years instead of all the time he’d devoted to “Lost.”  He’d be damned if he was going to miss the finale.

And so, after six long seasons of crazy plot twists, maddening coincidences, and more red herrings than in the Soviet-era Baltic Sea, “Lost” finally lived up to one thing:  its name.

“Lost’s” secret weapon is its soundtrack — the most manipulative one in television history.  When that piano starts slowly plinking, it has a Pavlovian effect on your tear ducts.

Throw in slow-motion, a church, a funeral, a lot of hugging, a father-son reunion, long-lost loves embracing, even a baby, and the main character dying, and I started wondering, who’s chopping raw onions in our kitchen at this hour?

Many fans mistook that warm fuzzy feeling they got at the end of the series for answers.  Not all, mind you.  The clearer-eyed (or harder-hearted) of us saw through the ruse.

Funny how after so many allusions to science, pseudo- or otherwise, the series ultimately had no option left but to come down on the side of faith.  There was no possible rational explanation for all that had transpired.

The creators had written themselves into a corner and they knew it.  Reason failed them in the end.  (As it may all, I’m afraid.)  Faith is all they had left to give us.

I’m not unhappy with that result.

But what about that damn polar bear?

“Lost” fans (and critics), what did you think of the ending?  Of the series?

Like some grim tribal ritual whose original meaning is lost in the mists of time, I will most probably sit down in front of the tube at the appointed hour, and brace myself for the onslaught of awkward acceptance speeches, corny jokes, and interminable dance numbers (please, God, no dance numbers!).

The experts agree there are two main contenders for Best Picture.  (What would we do without experts?)  One is a movie about a peaceful, idyllic land invaded by an evil military force trying to steal their resources.  The other one is called Avatar.

The struggle between Avatar and The Hurt Locker has gone back and forth.  Avatar was an early favorite, but Hurt Locker seems to have enjoyed a late General Petraeus-like surge.

Then in the final days, an ugly controversy struck Hurt Locker as one of its producers had the gall to ask people to vote for his movie.  Imagine that!  Doesn’t he know that Hollywood is a respectable place where aggressive self-promotion and crass commercialism are strictly off-limits?

Incidentally, have you noticed there are virtually no children in the world of Avatar?  It’s kind of like Beverly Hills.  Apparently there is a unique species on Pandora that takes care of the Na’vi children so the adults can spend all their time riding air-dragons and chasing blue tail.  This child-caring species is known as the Nan’ni.

Picking Oscar winners is one way to make the ceremonies tolerable.  (Another is drinking heavily.)  Not to brag or anything, but I almost always win my Oscar party pools.  For some inexplicable reason, I don’t get invited to Oscar parties anymore.

Since nobody else here at Big Hollywood has taken up the baton, to me is left the thankless task of making Oscar predictions.  Adopt them at your own risk.  (My lawyer made me add that.)

Best Picture

Probable winner:  toss-up between Avatar and The Hurt Locker

Should win:  toss-up between Up and Inglourious Basterds [sic]

Notes:  This year ten films are nominated for Best Picture, and a new European-style runoff voting system is being implemented.  Some say Inglourious Basterds is a dark-horse contender (gloury hallelujah).  But it’s anybody’s guess which will win.  If I had to choose, I’d say Hurt Locker is a lock.  Or Avatar.

Best Director

Probable winner:  Kathryn Bigelow

Should win:  Quentin Tarantino

Notes:  Tarantino is the most consistently compelling director working today.  His films are must-sees by any cinephile.  But Bigelow will be rewarded for making the first Iraq War movie whose total box office exceeded the sticker price of a Buick.

Best Actress

Probable winner:  Sandra Bullock

Should win:  Sandra Bullock

Notes:  If Bullock doesn’t win, the entire Bible Belt will unfasten itself and horsewhip Hollywood.  It might be worth it just to see Ari Emanuel try to hug it out with Baltimore Ravens tackle Michael Oher.

Best Actor

Probable winner:  Jeff Bridges

Should win:  Jeff Bridges

Notes:  Long overdue.  One word (plus a definite article):  “The Dude.”

Best Supporting Actress

Probable winner:  Mo’Nique

Should win:  See above

Notes:  Having a name punctuated like the Na’vi doesn’t hurt.

Best Supporting Actor

Probable winner:  Christoph Waltz

Should win:  See above

Notes:  Christopher Plummer is a sentimental dark-horse candidate.  Can you believe it’s Plummer’s first-ever nomination?  Unfortunately for him, the winner will have one less syllable in his first name.

Best Adapted Screenplay

Probable winner:  Up in the Air

Should win:  In the Loop

Notes:  In the Loop is the best comedy of 2009, a political (and really NSFW) movie that even a right-winger could love.  It deserves its very own post on BH.  Maybe I’ll do one later, if the clamor is loud enough.

Best Original Screenplay

Probable winner:  toss-up between The Hurt Locker and Inglourious Basterds (probably Hurt Locker; I just can’t bring myself to acknowledge that)

Should win:  toss-up between Inglourious Basterds and Up

Notes:  Many moons ago, I was the first person (other than Quentin) to clap eyes on Tarantino’s script for Pulp Fiction.  He wouldn’t let me read it, but I saw the storied stack of paper on his coffee table.  Buy me a beer and I’ll tell you the whole story.

Best Animated Feature

Probable winner:  Up

Should win:  See above

Notes:  I haven’t seen The Book of Kells, which hasn’t been released in the U.S. yet.  It looks amazing, however.

Best Cinematography

Probable winner:  The Hurt Locker

Should win:  Inglourious Basterds

Notes:  Are we sick of the faux-documentary style yet?

Best Editing

Probable winner:  The Hurt Locker

Should win:  District 9

Notes:  I’d pick Inglourious Basterds here, but it should have been shortened by about 15 minutes (like virtually every Tarantino film since Pulp Fiction).

Best Art Direction

Probable winner:  Avatar

Should win:  Avatar

Notes:  Some would say the eye candy was the only good thing about Avatar.  Some would be right.

Best Original Score

Probable winner:  Up

Should win:  Up

Notes:  Up’s composer, Michael Giacchino, also scores Lost.  That’s enough  for him to win my vote, right there.  (Even though the temple thing is really bugging me this season — but that isn’t his fault.)

Best Foreign Language Film

Probable winner:  The White Ribbon

Should win:  I don’t know, didn’t see enough of them to say.  (Whew, that felt good to get off my chest!)

Notes:  The White Ribbon is in black and white.  It should be a lock.

Best Documentary Feature

Probable winner:  Since I’ve got a documentary coming out this year, I’m going to steer well clear of this one.  (Psst, The Cove will win.)

For those of you wagering on the outcomes, here are my predictions for the rest of the categories.  Just so you know which ones to avoid.

Costumes: The Young Victoria

Makeup:  Star Trek

Visual Effects:  Avatar

Sound Mixing:  Avatar

Sound Editing:  The Hurt Locker

Song:  The Weary Kind (Crazy Heart)

Animated Short:  A Matter of Loaf and Death

Documentary Short:  The Last Truck:  Closing of a GM Plant

Live Action Short:  The Door

So, who do you think will win?

No, it’s not The Ann Coulter Story.

The movie is We The Living, based on the Ayn Rand novel of the same title.  Rand said that We The Living “is as near to an autobiography as I will ever write.”

Conservatives and libertarians have long lamented the scarcity of movies that depict the evils of communism.  Let’s see, there’s Doctor Zhivago, The Killing Fields, The Lives of Others, and… and, well, now there’s We The Living — a long-lost classic filmed in 1942, and now available on DVD for the first time ever.

WTL takes place soon after the Bolshevik takeover of Russia (which Rand experienced as a young woman).  The stunning Alida Valli plays Kira, a fiery college student who detests the communists ruining her country.  (Valli is perhaps best known to American audiences for her indelible performances in The Third Man and The Paradine Case.)

Kira’s formerly bourgeois family struggles to survive as the government outlaws most private trade, rations food and shelter, and implements health-care death panels.  (Okay, I might be confused about that last part.)

Life is a grind for all but the politically privileged.  The masses endure shortages and injustice, while well-connected Party members enjoy special treatment and profit from corruption.  Everything is politicized:  the economy, education, even science (as Party officials inform Kira and her fellow students).

But some forces override politics and even good sense.  At college one day, secret police officer Andrei (Fosco Giachetti) overhears Kira pouring scorn on Bolshevism.  Instead of arresting Kira, the officer is smitten with her.  In turn Kira develops a respect for Andrei bordering on love, despite their ideological differences.

Shortly thereafter, Kira has a chance encounter with the handsome, mysterious Leo (Rossano Brazzi), a free spirit like her, hunted by the authorities.  Kira and Leo have an immediate, almost animal chemistry.

This is one of the most affecting scenes in the movie, an instance of “love at first sight” made credible by the sublimity of the acting.  When they agree to see each other in a month in the same spot, you can’t wait for that month to pass so you can see what happens next.  From here unfolds a tragic romantic triangle marked by jealousy, deception and sacrifice.

WTL has some of Rand’s most layered characters.  In her later work, a character like Andrei the communist might be portrayed as an unalloyed villain.  But in WTL, Andrei gradually reveals a sensitive and decent humanity at odds with his repellent politics.  (Who hasn’t encountered such paradoxes in real people?)

The story behind the movie is nearly as remarkable as the film itself, further proof there is little daylight between fascism and communism.  (Jonah Goldberg, call your book editor.)

We The Living was made during World War II in Mussolini’s Italy, of all places.  The government warily allowed it to be filmed as a propaganda vehicle against the Soviet Union.  But when Mussolini realized the movie was a critique not only of communism but of all forms of statism, he banned it from theatres, where it was a smash hit.

The government rounded up and destroyed all copies of the film – save one, the original negative, which was secreted away.  As we are informed by the fascinating documentary (included among the DVD extras), the film’s reels languished unseen for decades until Rand’s attorneys went hunting for it among the Italian film community.

Duncan Scott, who produced the DVD release, explains how as a young editor he talked his way into recutting and subtitling the film alongside Ayn Rand herself. WTL had originally been released as two separate films.  They combined them, trimmed away some of the excess, and removed or redubbed pro-fascist propaganda speeches inserted at the insistence of the authorities.

Scott tells how in the original version, Andrei delivered a heated diatribe against the evils of capitalism.  Needless to say, this speech didn’t exactly belong.  Not content merely to change the subtitles, Scott actually hired a sound-a-like Italian actor so he could redub the voice track in Italian to match the new subtitles.

Unfortunately the digital transfer was done in 1987, and the cost of a high-definition remastering was prohibitive for this DVD release, so the picture quality isn’t quite as crisp as one might wish.  Nevertheless, it is completely watchable.

Considering the circumstances under which We The Living was made and later restored, this inspiring classic is a tremendous achievement, and a worthy addition to every liberty-lover’s DVD library — and to the too-brief list of films exposing the pitfalls of socialism in whatever form.

The Nobel Prize Committee announced today that it is awarding the Prize in Medicine to Jimmy Duncan, a senior at Horace Greeley High School in Chappaqua, New York, for getting a 97 on his bio-chem final.

“The Committee felt that Master Duncan has shown great promise with his outstanding grades,” said Dr. Leif Quisling, chairperson of the Nobel Prize Committee.  “It is our fervent hope that this award encourages him to do great things in the future, such as find a cure for cancer.”

The committee was first alerted to Jimmy Duncan when they came across a YouTube clip of Duncan’s class presentation on his career goals.

“We were particularly struck by his unbridled optimism,” said Dr. Quisling. “Duncan closed his passionate talk with these inspiring words:  ’And we can end cancer in our lifetimes if we all work together really, really hard!’  It is exactly those kind of empty platitudes that impress this committee. Far more so than anything so gauche as actual achievement.”

Mr. Duncan was somewhat blase’ about the news.  “I was lying in bed playing a little X-Box before heading off to school when my mom yelled, ‘Jimmy, you’ve got a phone call from Stockholm!’  It was pretty cool, yeah.”

Dr. Quisling acknowledged that the committee was inspired to award prizes prematurely after giving President Barack Obama a Nobel Peace Prize the year before, despite the fact that nominations had been closed only 11 days after he entered office.

“In Barack Obama’s case, we figured that if the American people were willing to hand over the U.S. presidency to someone who hasn’t accomplished much, why not give him the Nobel Peace Prize before he’s done anything, either?” Dr. Quisling said.

As for Jimmy Duncan, 17, he says he’s “psyched” about the Nobel Prize.  “I should be a shoo-in now to get into Harvard,” he said.

“By the way, I’m not going pre-med anymore,” Duncan volunteered.  ”Now that I’ve got the Nobel in Medicine, why bother?  I’ll just invest my prize money in a diversified fund and I never have to work another day in my life.  In fact, I may just skip Harvard and go to a party school.  Arizona State, here I come!”

We contacted Dr. Quisling’s office for a comment on Duncan’s change in plans.  Nobody returned our calls by press time.

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