Skating by all the hum digger of a controversial hornet’s nest that the Oscar have somehow found themselves mired in this year, one and one thing we can all agree on is either give Leo DiCaprio a golden paperweight or next time I’m finally going to drop this celebrity ego stroke of an event. I mean it, I’m not toting no lies here.
Yes, many of you say that fella’ from Danish Girl deserves it too. And, lord o lord, how can I blacklist poor old Walter White from getting his first effigy? “Rubbish,” you scientific minded nerds scowl at me and raise your withering digit. “Praise be to Damon and his potato encrusted adventure!”
To all those, I only preach the following, “Bahh!” And a sloppy raspberry to boot. Leo deserves this win, period. He’s become the Charlie Brown of the Academy Awards. Each year or so, those no good mongrels at the judge’s committee snatch Leo’s football away from his triumphant kick right at the last second. They build the bloke up, a Golden Globe here, a smattering of SAG (whatever those are), and a couple of lesser known “I’ll stuff them in a visitor’s bathroom” awards. Pats on the back, and every journalist tells Jack, “You’ll get it this year, trust us.” Then, pigeon chested, glory in his eye, Leo’s heart flutters right before the legendary envelope seal is broken. He clutches to his armrest, starts to get up.
“And the Academy Award for best actor goes to…”
“Ahhhh,” a telepathic shriek of bewailing his lot screeches across the airwaves. That sadistic succubus Lucy has struck again. You can practically hear a small cabal, back at their office, giggling and freeze framing the moment Leo’s heart visibly breaks. “Christmas card this year?” asks he of the 666.
Yes, we have to finally, give the guy his statue. Otherwise, we are going to break him. If we keep this up, Leo’s going to go postal or do some insane stunt on one of his films and bye bye to the fella’.
“You’ll see,” in his new performance. “They’ll have no choice but to finally give me an Oscar. Add more gasoline on the feathers.”
“Are you sure you want to do this? We have a Crash Test Dummy more than willing to take the brunt,” goes an indie arthouse director. He’s still a bit too starstruck to tell his leading man that he’s barking mad.
“Positive! Just say ‘action!’ Light me up and get ready for the magic. It is just a small gorge.”
“It’s the Grand Canyon…”
“Looks bigger on the tele…”
Icarus. The man behind the myth, a rousing award magnet, except for that fabled “in memoriam” statue. Lucy strikes again.
So, give the guy his Oscar. There’s a rule. It’s called the law of diminishing returns, and frankly it’s apt for this running gag.
Now, the part you all came in here for, and then discovered I had gone on a tangent. “The Revenant,” that gore infested, not even Arnie in his Terminator days could have survived half of it, film. Well, it was missing one crucial epithet. The ever eye opening, you jest, phrase of: “Based on True Events.”
This is a spoiler-filled article, so if you still haven’t seen it, take a hike.
Hugh Glass, Leo’s ‘Castaway’ in North Dakota, did once strut about this planet. The proverbial man’s man. Back in the 1800 hundred, he was the pioneering celebrity, the trail-blazer, of those Chuck Norris jokes we seem to get off on here in the Twitter Sphere Era.
He was a frontiersman and fur-trapper from Pennsylvania. Also, and this is just on account that he basically bleed testosterone, he was captured by Jean Lafitte – the famous New Orleans’ pirate – and forced to become a privateer. A practice that ate men alive and few survived. Hugh not only beat the odds, he actually managed to escape after two years.
“Hurray!” We clamor. But, just like in the film, from out of the frying pan into a fiery pit of hostile indians with a score to settle with those pesky Americans he went. He dove off the pirate ship, into shark infested waters – because the toothie froth adds more danger and there’s no one here who can positively tell me there wasn’t a Tiger or Hammerhead by the shores of Texas that year. For miles Hugh braved the waves, pass a gaggle of pissed off pirates and managed to swim safely onto the sandy shore… Where he was instantly captured by the Pawnee Tribe. Did this setback have him in an uproar? Nope, it did not. He merely brushed off the arrows protruding from his body, defrocked the blacktip shark fastened to his leg, shrugged and charmed the cutest Pocahontas in the group with his legendary smile. Three turns of the moon later and even the wolves were howling: “Will you keep it down. There are children here!”
Hugh earned the tribes’ respect and married one of their, by now heavily shagged, women. He became the tribe delegate/ambassador for affairs dealing with those White Devil’s known as Washington Politicians.
In 1822, he joined the “Ashley Hundreds,” the group of fur-traders from the film. He had just been married for over 4 years, so unless his man-juice had some fast growing property previously unheard by of science, Hawk, his teenage son from the film, was the iconic fancy of poetic justice.
Here, with this ragtag group of hombres, he struck up a lively friendship with two individuals, Tom “Mad Max” Hardy and Will “he looks vaguely familiar” Poulter, otherwise known as Fitzgerald and Bridger. Birds of a feather that flocked together and all that. A comradeship built on the fact that when rattlesnakes bit them, the scaly critters would explode in a cloud of red mist.
The whole Native American bit at the beginning, the woe and desolation part that kicks off the film, really did occur. The grizzly attack? You ask. Yup, that too took place in South Dakota, near Shadehill Reservoir. The only difference was, that although Hugh did kill the rampaging papa bear, he did it will the help of his two bestest’ buds, Fitzgerald and Bridger.
From there on, the movie follows a rather shaky path. He was abandoned by his two friends, although they really did believe he had perished – remember, this was a time when wakes were not just honorary but necessary on account of so many people being buried alive. Hugh, the first American Zombie, fought off gangrene, flesh-eating viruses, nasty weather, wolfs and everything nature could throw at him for over 200 miles until he reached Fort Kiowa.
After six weeks of being thought of as one with the worms, Hugh Glass entered the army fort. Many a gobsmacked mouths did appear, but after a cursory investigation and an irksome priest who constantly showered him with holy water and bopped him over the head with a crucifix, the legend of Hugh Glass was born.
Since there was a fire in his belly, Hugh rebuilt himself and took to the road. Revenge flooded his mind. He tracked down both of his “friends” and, after the initial shock, held them at gunpoint. Daydreams of Quentin Tarantino flickered across his eyes. Then, because life simply cannot live up to its promise, in perhaps the most anti-climatic ending imagined, Hugh forgave the two fiends, patched things up, and hugged out his troubles in a kumbaya jamboree of let bygones be bygones. Fitzgerald, now in the military reserve in Texas, even gave him back his rifle.
Hugh continued being a badass for a dozen or more years. An explorer, a frontiersman, a trapper, a bedder of wenches and a man with more lives than a cat.
In 1833, Hugh Glass, who by now was no doubt selling hairs from his beard as good luck tokens, finally ran out of rope. In the Spring of that year, a war party of ill-content Arikaras on The Yellowstone River finished what the grizzly had not managed to accomplish. In a dramatic turn of events, or simply because God is fond of tying things up in a metaphysical bow, Hugh’s villainous killers, those evil doing scoundrels, were identified and brought to a swift execution when they nonchalantly stumbled into a Fort, not a care in their mind, brandishing Hugh’s rifle as loot. The very same rifle, Tom, I mean Fitzgerald, had given Glass.
“Hang about,” while a suspicious fella’ who instantly I.D.ed the red herring weapon. And with that, all hell broke loose.
In conclusion, Hugh was a cocky bad-ass all men should emulate – that’s right, I’m looking right at you, you hipsters – and Leo should get an Oscar, otherwise this year’s award might end up in a pyromaniac display of volcanic wrath.
The End…. Or at least until Hollywood decides on a sequel or prequel, in other words, see you in two years.