Hello! It’s mid-August! I woke up a few days ago and it was in the 60s outside and misting. I immediately lost my mind and started thinking about potential Halloween costumes and playing the Her soundtrack. Thankfully, the sun fought its way through, and within a few hours we were back to beautiful warm blue skies. That’s what August is for: heel turn insanity. For example, at the beginning of this month, I signed a lease on a new apartment, then promptly left town for a weekend in a little town called Las Vegas. Ever heard of it?
Everything I knew about Vegas is collected from years of entertainment, of course. Nicolas Cage left there and won an Oscar. Celine Dion: Live in Las Vegas: A New Day deserves a Criterion release. And of course, the Hangover of it all. I worked in a tiny movie theater when The Hangover came out, and it was the funniest shit I had ever seen. I would often pop in during shifts to see a few minutes here and there, praying I’d catch the tiger song. It was 2009, and Ed Helms singing a 20-second ditty about anything could supply you with serotonin for a week. That’s what kept The Office going much, much longer than it should have.
Now, if I time traveled to 2009 and told you that the dude that changed our lives with a simple line reading of “Paging Doctor [REDACTED]” would go on to work with Clint Eastwood and Paul Thomas Anderson and win prestigious awards and spearhead a biopic of Leonard Bernstein, you’d be like, no fucking way. But if I told you that same dude would go on to voice a talking raccoon and wear a damnable prosthetic nose, you’d be like, okay that sounds about right. Then I’d be like, but mere months after playing the raccoon, he gets nominated for an Oscar for playing a killer soldier that holds a fake baby, and you’d be like, wait, what? Then I would tell you to put all your money on Tom Hooper next year, and you’d scream WHO?! Then I’d step into my time portal to leave you forever, but not before poking my head out to say “Also, that girl that sings Just Dance? She’s going to be in a movie directed by that guy and she’s gonna win an Oscar. Oh, and the guy that made The Hangover will then direct her in a musical Batman sequel.” Then I would leave you forever with zero warnings about climate change, the political landscape, or anything else.
The days leading up to my Vegas trip went pretty much like this:
Tuesday: Why would I ever waste my money gambling?
Wednesday: Oh, you drink for free when you gamble? Maybe I’ll play a slot or two.
Thursday: I’m going to win $100,000 in Vegas.
I did not win $100,000 in Vegas (can you imagine if I had, and I spent paragraphs throwing shade at Bradley Cooper before mentioning it?) but I did meander around the hotel casino with my friends, carrying a little cocktail in my Cubs koozie, intermittently inserting single bills into slot machines. Gambling is a hard thing to conceptualize. At first, it was difficult to shake my natural competitive spirit. I found myself seeking a task at which I could prove myself: Is there a big hammer I can smash? Is there a water gun I can squirt? No, there is not. This is not the county fair, though the flashing lights, array of aromas, and range of clientele may lead one to believe it is. Then I heard the opening piano chords of Sara Bareilles’s ‘Love Song’ piping through the ceiling speakers overhead, and suddenly everything clicked. “I’m not gonna WRITE you a LOVE song,” I screeched along, smashing the BET button on “love.” Oh, that feels good. I lose all my money. Oh, that feels bad. But then the bridge comes in (which is huge– radio often cuts the bridge of that song for no reason– any Bareilles Head can angrily confirm!) and I feel good again.
The key to gambling is that you cannot find a way to win. You cannot be good at it. It is in God’s hands. Full disclosure, I did not play any card games. Some folks claim you can be good at those games, but being good at those games means counting cards, and that’s inexplicably not allowed, which I learned from The Hangover. In Las Vegas, you are not allowed to be good at gambling or use the hotel pool after 7pm, but you are allowed to smoke inside and pay $35 for a cocktail. It is 105 degrees at midnight. What I’m trying to say is: It’s amazing.
When I returned from Vegas, the stink of August was hanging heavy in the air. I don’t think it’s an inherently bad month; it just makes everyone start to go a little crazy, in a fun way. The end of summer is upon us. I gasped when I saw this new photo of Selena Gomez, which perfectly summarizes the month:
Well, since we’re on the topic, let’s check in with the PTA Calendar:
As a childless adult (not to brag), August and September are mysterious because it is a vestige of a time that no longer means anything to me. I’m not going back to school, and I don’t have any offspring going there either. But the “Back to school” sensation never goes away. Time for big moves! Who are you? What’s your plan? There are suddenly so many questions that need answers immediately.
Yet it’s still the end of summer. These last few weeks have the eerie but soothing calm of Jon Brion’s wheezing, lazy overture. Adam Sandler is the perfect transition between seasons. Even his name sounds like the months. Adam Sandler; August September. This is a mnemonic device that you can share with all your loved ones for free. Moving on!
Another disquieting precipice my household finds ourselves on: Is 2une going to be delayed? I’m already nauseated at the fact that we won’t be getting glamorous Venice boat arrival snapshots of Zendaya and Timothee Chalamet. 2une is also Oppenheimer’s biggest competition for many technical awards. If the former gets pushed to next year, the latter will easily take it all. Now let’s talk about Original Score. Can we talk about Original Score, please? I’ve been dying to talk about Original Score with you since I revved up this newsletter. I’m not sure anyone has ever been more in their bag than Ludwig Göransson was while composing the music for Oppenheimer. More than once during the film I had to turn to my friend and shout “DAMN!” like we were at an outdoor concert. A slay, top to bottom. Göransson’s rival in this category? None other than Christopher Nolan’s ex, Hans Zimmer, who famously rejected Nolan’s Tenet to work on Dune instead. Scandal is everywhere. You just have to look for it.
On the other hand, legendary musician and long time Martin Scorsese collaborator Robbie Robertson just passed away, and he’s never even been nominated for an Oscar. I see three potential historical outcomes:
Göransson wins his second Oscar (no one’s ever won an Oscar for scoring a Nolan film before)
Robertson nabs his first nomination and win for Killers of the Flower Moon, becoming the first composer to win posthumously since 1956, as well as the first Native American to ever win an Oscar1 (!)
Zimmer wins his third Oscar, becoming the second person in history to win two Oscars for the same franchise. (Howard Shore, 2001 and 2003.)
Perhaps it’s futile to prophesize this upcoming award season, considering the concurrent strikes. Here are a few things I suspect we have missed out on due to the AMPTP’s refusal to stand down:
A lengthier Barbie press tour, which includes Ryan Gosling being coerced into acting a fool in some asinine Tonight Show bit. Rob Thomas appears, of course.
Photos of Jon Hamm in character as Coach Carr on the set of the Mean Girls movie musical.
You thought Barbenheimer was fun? We could have had Kravens of the Flower Moon!
Just kidding. There’s nothing on Earth that could get me to go see Kraven the Hunter, and I’m an AMC Stubs A-List member; it would cost me nothing. In my last newsletter, I celebrated Joey King for her rumored dalliance with married Kraven star Aaron Taylor-Johnson. A lot of breakups have happened this summer, yet his marriage remains intact. Enough is enough! Let’s get Ariana Grande in the MCU and shake things up.
Hang on a second. What’s that?
Hold on…
My sources tell me it’s time for
A Formal Apology to Jennifer Lawrence.
Jennifer, girl, I’m sorry. I was, indeed, a part of the poisonous anti-JLaw campaign that pervaded the culture over the last decade. I wish I hadn’t let my revulsion of David O. Russell color my opinion of you. I wasn’t really familiar with your game.
Pound for pound, No Hard Feelings is the funniest movie of the year. I will carry the banner for Ryan Gosling’s Supporting Actor campaign as long as there is breath in my body– but his warbling “I wanna take you for græńed” is only almost as good as Jennifer Lawrence, fully nude, fighting a group of teens on the beach. I really forgot that being naked is funny, regardless of gender and presentation. We can talk about the big third act speech in Barbie til we’re blue in the face, but nothing has inspired me the way Jennifer Lawrence did when she emerged from the ocean in her birthday suit and proceeded to scream, throw sand, and body slam a kid– all of it entirely divorced from sexuality.
When I look at Jennifer’s upcoming projects, I deflate. I want 37 more stupid comedies from her. But that’s not a problem, Jennifer. I will go see your Lynne Ramsay movie, and when I get scared, I will just remember the way you leaped onto the hood of that car and held on for dear life, or the way you slowly ascended the stairs in those rollerblades.
Y’all take care, now.
Lily Gladstone is in the conversation as well for Supporting Actress, so they both could make history!