Acceptance Speech
It's time for a newsletter-based awards ceremony where every categories is made up and the trophies don't matter (or exist).
The lamp is on and my cat is dozing off in his seat, which is all the pomp and circumstance that’s required on my living room’s biggest night. That’s right, it’s time for the first annual Attenuator Film & Screen Awards (the Ttennies, for short), a newsletter-based awards ceremony recognizing the movies, video games, and television I enjoyed over the past year — even if they weren’t necessarily released last year. We didn’t invite any celebs, we’re not serving pizza in a bag, and in lieu of renting a tuxedo, I’ll be wearing the suit I got married in.
Unlike all of those big, televised award shows, absolutely nobody campaigned for a Ttennie (mostly because they’re just a figment of my imagination). No screeners were sent to my doorstep, nary a promotional tchotchke landed on my desk, and not a single director sat on the corner of Hollywood Boulevard with a cow in hopes that I’d take notice. In its inaugural year, the Ttennies are pure, honest, and bestowed only on those whom I deem deserving (You have my assurance that any future “for your consideration” campaign palm-greasing will be acknowledged if some publicist decides that their client needs an extra “T” on their EGOT).
I hear the orchestra warming up (a playlist of songs from my favorite albums of 2023), so I think it’s time to walk the orange carpet and find a seat. If you’d like to lock down an invitation to next year’s awards ceremony, just hit that big orange button and I’ll make sure you’re on the list.
Live from Chicago, it’s the Attenuator Film & Screen Awards
We didn’t spring for a celebrity host and none of my proposed jokes about the nominees fared any better than that Golden Globes opening monologue, so we’re going to jump straight into the awards presentation…
Best Kaiju Actor: Godzilla in Godzilla Minus One
While American studios were busy trying to justify Godzilla going for a jog, the country that conceived the larger-than-life atomic metaphor made a film that sends the radioactive lizard back to his city-smashing, social commentary-dispensing roots. Godzilla has had a decent amount of work on both sides of the Pacific over the past decade, but outside of his very method, shape-shifting turn in Shin Godzilla, he’s mostly phoned it in when tasked with appearing in Hollywood’s kaiju blockbusters. He was surely tempted to ask that digital de-aging be applied to his performance in a period piece like Minus One, but I think ‘Zilla made the right choice by opting for a contemporary look with some classic touches (there are a few “man in a rubber suit”-inspired moments). Mostly, I admire his willingness to cede screen time to his human cast mates, making his appearances all the more affecting and formidable.
Best TV Show That is Equal Parts Unsettling and Anxiety-Inducing: The Curse
I’ll preface this blurb by admitting that I’m just a few days out from watching the finale of The Curse, so it’s still rotating in my mind as it receives this award. I expected a TV drama (surreal comedy?) helmed by Nathan Fielder and Benny Safdie to embrace the tense, cringe-inducing tone of their respective previous work, but I don’t think I was prepared for just how quickly The Curse becomes an exercise in extended discomfort. It helps that much of it is shot like a hidden camera show and that its modicum of conventional plot seems to exist solely as a means of arranging increasingly awkward scenarios and confrontations (building to a bizarre conculsion). I acknowledge that there are a litany of things about The Curse that make it unwatchable for some folks, but I find the show’s commitment to navigating layers of insecurity (especially Emma Stone, who throws herself into a supremely unlikable persona) to be strangely entrancing, especially when accompanied by John Medeski’s haunting score.
Best Supporting Dog Actor: Snoop in Anatomy of a Fall
A quick Google search revealed that Messi — the boarder collie that assumes the role of Snoop in French courtroom drama Anatomy of a Fall — has already been bestowed with a well-deserved award for canine acting. Well, he’s going home with another piece of hardware, because as much as I was mesmerized by the intricacies of French courtroom trials and the murky, unknowable relationships that are portrayed in this film, I still can’t fathom how a certain dog-centric scene (that I refuse to spoil, please see this movie) was accomplished. I just hope he got lots of Milk-Bones and belly rubs after nailing his pivotal stunt.
Most Lovable Sidekick: Masaharu Kaito in Judgement
The best things about the Judgement games (and by extension, the Yakuza/Like A Dragon games that they spun off from) is the hyper-detailed rendering of urban Japan. But the second best thing about these games is the characters — mostly because you spend a considerable amount of time speaking with them and gaining a deeper understanding of Takayuki Yagami’s (the playable character) relationship with them. My favorite of the bunch is Yagami’s detective agency partner Masaharu Kaito, a former yakuza who wears a garish silk shirt and is usually smoking, flirting, or fighting. By the time you reach the end of Judgement, it’s clear that his machismo is largely posturing that he employs when it benefits his friends — a kind of depth that’s rarely bestowed on muscle-bound, tough-talking characters in video games.
Best Astro Boy + Watchmen + Blade Runner Mash-up: Pluto
Based on Naoki Urasawa’s early-aughts manga (itself a reimagined Astro Boy story), this animated adaptation of Pluto ticks a lot of boxes on the list of “things I enjoy.” There’s endless rumination on the humanity of sentient machines, a mysterious serial killer targeting the world’s most powerful individuals, and a boy robot with rockets on his feet. It’s beautifully animated across all eight episodes, thanks to assistance from studios like MAPPA and Studio VOLN, not to mention all of the cash that Netflix likely threw at it (and they should absolutely continue funding ambitious anime projects like this — maybe that long-rumored full adaptation of Akira?). Pluto earns its Ttennie by the end of the first episode with its heart-wrenching North No. 2 sequence, and it somehow remains just as compelling throughout.
Most Beautiful But Hollow (Not Unlike The Robots’ Heads) Film: The Creator
Unlike the countless directors willing to riff on familiar iconography, Gareth Edwards makes good on sci-fi’s promise of “showing you things you’ve never seen before” in The Creator. There’s a giant space station armed with tactical nukes that floats around the planet projecting giant laser glyphs on the ground and androids with gaping holes through their head where their ears should be. And it’s mostly shot on location in ultra-widescreen, with the vistas of Thailand and Bangkok providing a naturalistic backdrop for this dystopian vision of the future. With so much eye candy on display, it’s a shame that the plot of The Creator is an extended cliché cribbed from much more cohesive narratives, rarely rising above trope-strewn connective tissue between set pieces. I’m giving this award with the hope that Edwards’ next film has a script that matches the ambition of his vision.
Most Stylish Mediocre Video Game: No More Heroes III
OK, one more “award for ambition, not execution” before we move on. Director Goichi Suda’s games have always valued visual flair and pop culture references more than intuitive gameplay — my fond memories of slicing through enemies in the first two No More Heroes game are tempered by thoughts of frustrating bosses and glitchy mechanics. It’s fitting that the final (?) game in the series is more of the same, with a flawed combat system, a seemingly-unfinished open world, wildly unpredictable difficulty spikes, and a repetitive, padded-out progression that often feels like a slog. But No More Heroes III swings for the fences stylistically, structuring the game like an episodic Netflix show (complete with the “next episode” bar) that is punctuated by an imagined podcast about the films of Japanese director Takaski Miike. It’s hard for me to outright hate a game with a boss fight based around a game of musical chairs, a first-person sequence inspired by P.T., and a late-game, JRPG turn-based battle. Reflecting Suda’s personality and predilections, these sudden left turns were ultimately what kept me grinding through this game — even after it crashed during a mini-game and erased about an hour’s worth of progress.
The Christopher Guest Award for Mockumentary Excellence: Theater Camp
With the possible exception of Popstar: Never Stop Never Stopping and that Stop Making Sense episode of Documentary Now, I don’t think anyone has made a truly great music-focused mockumentary since A Mighty Wind. Even though Theater Camp is technically a musical theater mockumentary, the tune of “Camp Isn’t Home” haunts the recesses of my mind, so I’m willing to give it this award, presented by the costumed cast of the upcoming major motion picture, Spinal Tap II. Directors Molly Gordon and Nick Lieberman have clearly studied the collected works of Christopher Guest — Theater Camp shares an attention to character (even the ones with just a few lines of dialogue) and a willingness to momentarily buck the mockumentary conceit to keep the laughs and plot beats flowing.
Most Outstanding Inanimate Object Bestowed With the Gift of Life: The Three-Legged Chair in Suzume
You’ll believe a three-legged chair can run after seeing Suzume, the latest entry in director Makoto Shinkai’s series of anime films that imbue natural disasters with magical properties (alongside some of the most beautifully-rendered food from McDonald’s). Shinkai has admitted that he conceived of a running three-legged chair as a means of comic relief amid a sometimes-heavy story about confronting traumatic events. I’m not sure why Shinkai’s idea of levity is a wobbly chair furiously moving its legs, but his instincts are spot on — seeing this little yellow seat with holes for eyes skitter across Japanese vistas is very funny. Feels like this could be the beginning of a sentient furniture trend.
The Tubthumping Award For Getting Knocked Down and Getting Up Again: John Wick: Chapter 4
John Wick has endured a lot of punishment throughout this film saga (thank goodness for bulletproof suits), but Chapter 4 feels especially brutal. Coming off of a fall from a very tall building in the previous chapter, the excommunicado assassin gets hurled down Berlin nightclub waterfalls, hit by cars in the Arc de Triomphe roundabout, and falls down multiple flights of stairs during a combative climb to the Sacré-Cœur in Paris. This pummeling is delivered via some of the series’ best fight sequences — an impressive feat considering that every John Wick movie is basically a string of set pieces. Best of all, this barrage of abuse builds to a sense of closure for this character, though I suspect that there’s another chapter in the offing once director Chad Stahelski comes up with a few more international landmarks to stage vicious fights in front of.
Best Realization of the “Glueing Stuff Together” Game Mechanic: The Legend of Zelda: Tears of the Kingdom
Reusing the Hyrule overworld from The Legend of Zelda: Breath of Wild gave Nintendo plenty of time to add other stuff to Tears of the Kingdom, the most impressive of which is the ability to magically glue parts together to create vehicles that allow you to explore the world and weapons that can vanquish enemies. I love that you can throw together a few parts and create a simple-yet-effective hoverbike, or dig into a fan-created archive of complex traps, robots, and structures. While the learning curve can be a little steep, effectively melding parts can help you quickly navigate (and illuminate) the expansive Depths or assist with the takedown of a powerful enemy. The ability to attach a rocket to a lost Korok and send it flying into Hyrule’s stratosphere is just the cherry glued to the top of this well-realized mechanic.
Most Cinematic Public Restrooms: Perfect Days
If you’ve ever been to Shibuya in Tokyo (I was extremely fortunate to visit on my honeymoon last year), then you’ve probably seen the area’s eye-catching public toilets, collectively known as the Tokyo Toilet Project. The work of 16 international architects, the flashy public restrooms could be mistaken for art installations, like the white orb with two doors on one side and a series of rooms enclosed by colored glass (that become opaque when you lock the door). When director Wim Wenders saw the bathrooms, he initially proposed a series of shorts featuring each distinctive location. Instead, he wrote a poignant feature about a Tokyo toilet cleaner who finds joy in the mundanity and regularity of his job and life.
Perfect Days is a rhythmic film that follows a fairly strict pattern, depicting the day-to-day life of Hirayama (Kōji Yakusho) and his commitment to routine. Because of this structure, you see quite a bit of the incredible public restrooms as Hirayama cleans them each day, tidying what passes for a mess in a fastidiously cleanly society. There are restrooms that make repeat appearances (the one made of logs and the one with the colored glass) throughout the film, becoming familiar landmarks. If Perfect Days was set in just about any other city, you’d assume that the restrooms had been built for the film — but in Tokyo, you really can take a whiz in an opaque glass box situated in the middle of a park.
Best Billy Wilder Film I Watched: Ace in the Hole
There was some strong competition for this coveted award, because 2023 was my year of watching many Billy Wilder film, thanks to two matinee series at the Music Box Theatre devoted to the late director’s oeuvre. I made it to 12 of the 15 films screened and ended up watching several more at home, but only one of Wilder’s classic cinematic works could win this Ttennie (accepting the award on behalf of Wilder is We Bought A Zoo director Cameron Crowe).
This year it’s Ace in the Hole, Wilder’s 1951 film that unpacks the term “media circus” in vivid black and white. Presaging the rise of fake news and sensational tabloid journalism, Wilder’s script presents a crooked journalist (Kirk Douglas) with a story that he can manipulate and control — the ultimate power trip for a person who goes through life in search of eye-catching headlines. Douglas embraces the thirst for godlike power that possesses his character, chewing up all the breath-taking scenery that a $1.8 million budget (circa 1951) can buy. Ace in the Hole eventually becomes as melodramatic as the tales Douglas’ character dictates to his editor, solidifying it as one of Wilder’s most effective satires.
My Favorite Film That I’m Still Deciphering and May Never Completely Understand, But That’s OK: The Boy and the Heron
Saddled with the weight of being Hayao Miyazaki’s final film (a claim he’s made about two previous films and seems to have no qualms about recanting… again) and a drawn-out seven-year production process, The Boy and the Heron was destined to be a piece of art that would be picked over and viewed as some sort of all-encompassing concluding statement. Naturally, there’s been plenty of “explainer” content created in the wake of its release, examining the film’s ties to Japanese folklore, its similarities to a book that inspired the film’s Japanese title, and the real-life associates of Miyazaki represented by characters in the film.
But trying to explain the origin or symbolism of every element of The Boy and the Heron misses the point — it’s a film that feels both deeply personal (Miyazaki made it for his grandson) and all-encompassing in its scope. Its dreamlike narrative feels representative of not just Miyazaki’s lived experience, but applicable to nearly any human’s existence. It confronts death and loss in a more uncompromising way than any previous Ghibli film, but it also feels like a celebration of the possibilities that life contains, even if you don’t ever encounter a magical heron or a tower that’s a portal to another world.
I’ve seen The Boy and the Heron twice in theaters and came away from each screening with a different understanding of what the film was trying to impart. I look forward to revisiting it many times over, soaking in the surreal world, the memorable characters, Joe Hisaishi’s minimal-yet-affecting score, the subtly shifting animation styles, and the cascade of meditations on creation, failure, and legacy. It’s a film that I’m content with never fully understanding, and a piece of art that seems likely to reveal itself in new and unexpected ways at different stages of my life, especially when my beard grows longer and I’m inevitably forced to reckon with my own teetering spire filled with hungry, homicidal parakeets.
We’re about 20 minutes (sentences?) over our allotted runtime and I can hear the “wrap it up” music beginning to swell. Thanks for reading through the first edition of the Attenuator Film & Screen Awards — I imagine that all of the winners are on their way to Portillo’s to snap candid photos with their trophies while noshing hot dogs and Italian beefs. If you know of someone who might want to experience a repeat broadcast of this ceremony, hit that button below to share it with them. Congratulations to all of the winners and best of luck to next year’s aspiring nominees!