That Christian Bale packs it on and sheds it off with the change of seasons has become the essence of his thespian identity. Nobody punishes their body more consistently for their art, or if you’re feeling less charitable, audiences’ admiration. So it almost seems counterintuitive to call the makeup award, one of our early string of Oscar-prognosticating “gimmes,” a lock for Vice. After all, who in this case deserves to give the acceptance speech that will run during the commercial break: the Crave Case of sliders that Bale downed daily between miming comedic myocardial infarctions? In other words, isn’t the—ahem—bulk of the work being done here a testament to Bale’s familiarity with macros?
In the end, no, it won’t matter. As last year’s winner, the even more latex-dependent political period piece Darkest Hour, made patently clear, don’t bet against the movie Oscar voters find the most respectable, especially in the absence of Rick Baker conjuring up another monster-transformation jam. And even though the prosthetics of Border come awfully close to that terrain, the only thing more likely to miss out these days than tight-bunned period pieces about British royalty are foreign efforts whose sole nomination comes via this category, to say nothing of Oscar nominees that were given the Prix Un Certain Regard at Cannes. No matter how much new blood Oscar pushes into the clogged veins of their branch memberships, the Academy Awards still, much like Dick Cheney, very much prefer their meat red, thanks.
Will Win: Vice
Could Win: Mary Queen of Scots
Should Win: Border
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