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A Bird in a Gilded Cage: Jennifer Jones at Lincoln Center

The best reason to attend this festival is the resurrection of Gone to Earth.



A Bird in a Gilded Cage: Jennifer Jones at Lincoln Center

In the middle of Vincente Minnelli’s version of Madame Bovary (1949), Jennifer Jones’s Emma is at a ball and surrounded by admiring men. The country girl who has read so many romance novels is now seemingly in the midst of one of her stories, and she behaves like a freed prisoner; after a flirtatious laugh, she catches sight of herself in an ornate gilded mirror, and Minnelli cuts to the sumptuous image she sees, then cuts back to a medium shot of her reaction. Jones’s gentle, apple-cheeked face gradually becomes hard, proud, even calculating: it’s a revelation of her narcissistic inner nature as a performer. She rationed this side of herself, so that in William Wyler’s Carrie (1952), the director can only catch the briefest flash of low cunning on her face as she thinks over her options as a female object of desire. Lincoln Center has programmed Jones’s best films from May 16-24, offering us a big screen opportunity to watch one of the more mysterious of screen presences, not quite an actress, not quite a star, but a source of unplaceable anxiety and half-buried, wanton instincts.

Jones often played ethereal, fey girls, like her time-traveling Jennie Appleton in Portrait of Jennie (1949), or her amnesia victim in Love Letters (1945), and this must have been the way she came across to her Svengali, Gone with the Wind (1939) producer David O. Selznick. She began her career playing a saint, Bernadette Soubirous in The Song of Bernadette (1943), which won her an Oscar (she had made a John Wayne quickie western and a Dick Tracy serial under her real name, Phylis Isley, but Selznick omitted these undistinguished credits from her publicity). Jones’s rather dim intensity suits the role of Bernadette perfectly; you can believe that she sees visions. She basically plays the same note of guilelessness for two and a half hours, and talks about seeing “the lady,” the Virgin Mary, countless times. But Jones has one truly lovely moment here: when she realizes that a boy in town has always been in love with her, all she does is look down, and in that look Bernadette suddenly sees the entirety of a happy life that she hadn’t dreamt of, a life she won’t ever get to live. Bernadette is solemn and overlong, but Jones is so sincere and believably simple that she makes the whole clumsy production work. Whether she was really so simple off the screen is a matter of conjecture that is probably answered by those moments in Carrie and Madame Bovary when her mask of propriety drops.

Jones came from a theatrical family and pursued acting from an early age, along with her first husband, Robert Walker. She came to much grief when asked to choose between Walker and Selznick, a rapacious, brilliant producer who wanted her and promised her the world. Selznick cast the lovelorn Walker opposite his then-estranged wife in her second official film, the sentimental home front epic Since You Went Away (1944), and Jones’s Faustian dilemma off-screen resulted in a performance of discomforting intensity; she overdoes her character’s youthful fervor, and shows the first signs of a battery of nervous physical mannerisms, most notably an overactive mouth that she can’t seem to hold still. There’s an unsettling tension in her love scenes with Walker, who was going to pieces over losing her to Selznick, and their interactions, painful as they are to watch, are the only thing that gives the big, stultifying film a pulse.

In the torturously plotted Love Letters, which was scripted by Ayn Rand (!), Jones is locked into a series of interminable close-ups, first fruits of Selznick’s notorious obsession with her face. In most of the films that followed, even those that Selznick didn’t have direct control over, Jones is isolated in fetishistic close-ups that bewilderingly break into scenes without rhyme or reason, and she grew more and more self-conscious under such unreflective scrutiny. Selznick’s sexual fixation on her resulted in his outrageous western Duel in the Sun (1947), where she postured ludicrously as the supposedly torrid “half-breed” Pearl Chavez. Selznick wanted her to show her scarlet woman side (the producer was still married to his wife Irene, and their affair had to be kept secret), but Jones was clearly uncomfortable when asked to enact her lover’s adolescent erotic ideal on screen. The sheer weight of the production, helmed by King Vidor and several others, frustrates Jones’s best impulses, and she looks like she knows how miscast she is.

Before this ordeal was released, audiences saw Jones liberated by the great Ernst Lubitsch in Cluny Brown (1946), his last completed film. This might be Jones’s only early movie without those pointless Selznick close-ups, and she turns her own (feigned?) obliviousness into the drollest, most sophisticated of dirty jokes. As low-born Cluny, whose love of plumbing stands in for her incipient sexual possibilities, Jones is an unending delight, finding just the right note of wide-eyed eccentricity for Lubitsch’s satire of English mores. Cluny Brown revealed her as a comedienne made for high comedy, but Selznick persisted with her “girl of nature” mode in Portrait of Jennie, a costly flop. After marrying Selznick, Jones looked inhibited while attempting a light Cuban accent in John Huston’s stinker We Were Strangers (1949), but made the most of the literally dizzying ballroom tour-de-force in Minnelli’s Bovary, not an entirely successful film, but a touching one. Toward the end of it, Jones waltzes around a room by herself, trying to recreate her ruined triumph at the ball, and this is another indelible image of her: lost in a daydream, frustrated, marked by fate.

The best reason to attend this festival is the resurrection of Jones’s Michael Powell/Emeric Pressburger film Gone to Earth (1950), which was re-cut by Selznick and released as The Wild Heart. A comparison between the two cuts reveals Selznick’s simplifying impulses: he edits out all the ambiguity of the main love triangle between Jones’s feral Hazel, Cyril Cusack’s repressed parson and David Farrar’s lusty but vulnerable lord. Selznick’s The Wild Heart plays as an awkward rural melodrama, with Jones as a sacrificial heroine; it’s affecting, but has nowhere near the depth and flame-like strangeness of the Powell version, where Jones captures all the unquenchable sexuality that she couldn’t summon for Pearl Chavez. Both at one with nature and fiercely against it, her Hazel leads a pet fox on a leash down the aisle of a church when she’s going to marry Cusack, and she’s never able to control her libido and love of being looked at and desired. Seen today, Gone to Earth looks like a primitive Powell masterpiece to place beside Black Narcissus (1947) and The Red Shoes (1948), and it shows what Jones could do when she was freed of Selznick’s overbearing attention (he was not on set as they shot it, and Powell wins what is probably Jones’s most uninhibited, most revealing single performance).

King Vidor then had his way with Jones in Ruby Gentry (1952), a personal, elemental movie that the director smuggled past Selznick. As a backwoods girl caught in a ferocious love battle with Charlton Heston, Jones is direct, voluptuous and quietly lethal when she orders vengeance on her faithless lover in that throaty, almost slurred voice of hers; she always sounds as if she’s trying to swallow something bitter. Vidor zeroes in on the unhealthy-looking contrast of Jones’s porcelain skin with her raven hair and bushy black eyebrows and gives her a strong framework to create a focused, passionate performance. In this, as in so many of the films she made in her comparatively brief career, Jones plays someone much like herself, a relatively simple girl who pays a steep price to fulfill her desires and ambitions.

Jones’s inchoate urge to get ahead but still somehow remain a nice person is also what informs her Carrie Meeber in Wyler’s Carrie. In that movie, Laurence Olivier is giving the performance of his life as the besotted and gradually ruined George Hurstwood, and in strict acting terms he blows Jones off the screen. Magnificent and even personal as he is, though, you can always see Olivier acting, whereas Jones simply is Theodore Dreiser’s naïve, vague survivor heroine; it was particularly felicitous casting. Around the same time, the chronically unhappy Robert Walker died of an overdose, under circumstances that are still unclear. Like Carrie with Hurstwood, Jones had to carry the guilt of Walker’s disintegration and death for the rest of her life, one of several wounds she had to bear that could never really heal.

Quite unexpectedly, Jones again turned to comedy and excelled in John Huston’s cult classic Beat the Devil (1954). She’s the only performer in the cast who finds exactly the right tone for the bizarre Truman Capote script (just as she instinctively understood the refined comic rhythms of Lubitsch). As Gwendolen Chelm, an extremely inventive pathological liar, a blond-wigged Jones appears to be having the time of her life with her detailed flights of fancy delivered in a plummy English accent, and it is to be regretted that this second comic triumph did not lead to more work in this vein. That same year, Selznick again ruined a fine director’s film starring his wife; he cut Vittorio de Sica’s Terminal Station down to 63 minutes and gave it the absurd title Indiscretion of an American Wife. Yet again, he simplified a Jones movie and made her character nobly, one-dimensionally sympathetic. In the de Sica cut, Jones is obviously a fancy housewife with undeniable physical urges who has been looking for a little pleasure in Italy, and she’s well paired with an equally dark, neurotic actor, Montgomery Clift. The difference between the two films is one more example, if any was needed, of just how destructive Selznick’s influence was on Jones’s film work.

At this point, Jones’s career rapidly deteriorated. She had a box office hit with Love is a Many Splendored Thing (1955), but that tame romance hasn’t aged well, and she spends most of Good Morning, Miss Dove (1955) flat on her back in a hospital bed, primly sniping at all around her; we’re supposed to find her rigid schoolmarm lovable underneath her prim exterior, but Miss Dove is really just a one-dimensional martinet in a dull film. Jones seems to give her whole performance as the unhappy wife in The Man in the Grey Flannel Suit (1956) with her mouth, which twitches so uncontrollably throughout that she seems in desperate need of a sedative. This was followed by three painfully misguided “big” movies: she was a stilted Elizabeth Barrett in The Barretts of Wimpole Street (1957), a neurasthenic Catherine Barkley in A Farewell to Arms (1957), where she again struggles to carry the load of Selznick’s overblown production, and a possessed Nicole Diver in a dreadful film of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s Tender is the Night (1962). Everything around Jones is almost unbelievably poor in Tender, but it’s worth seeing for her fully committed portrait of disturbed, childlike instability (she had Paula Strasberg as an acting coach on the set to help her dredge up the requisite demons).

After Selznick’s death in 1965, Jones completely lost her bearings. She accepted an unsuitable lead in The Idol (1966), playing a woman seduced by a younger man, then descended much further in the jaw-dropping Angel, Angel, Down We Go (1969), where she is given lines like, “I made thirty stag films and I never faked an orgasm!” Much worse is the moment when she says, “I like Gone with the Wind,” covering her face with embarrassment at this shamelessly low level of self-exploitation, which surely had Selznick spinning in his grave. Angel, also known as Cult of the Damned, would be a hoot if it didn’t humiliate Jones so flagrantly; she looks stiffly uncomfortable and seems confused by the campy, Off-Off-Off Broadway material. In her final movie, the all-star disaster epic The Towering Inferno (1974), Jones is last seen ungracefully falling out of an elevator shaft to her death. Around this time, her daughter with Selznick, Mary Jennifer, committed suicide, and Jones herself made a serious suicide attempt. Bloodied but unbowed, she emerged from this lost period to create a successful third act as the wife to millionaire art collector Norton Simon, devoting herself to him, his museum in Pasadena, and also to the aid of the mentally ill.

Selznick was a great producer in the thirties and early forties, giving valuable first opportunities to Katharine Hepburn, George Cukor, Vivien Leigh, Joan Fontaine, Ingrid Bergman and Alfred Hitchcock, but by the time he met and then married Jones, he had exhausted himself. He created and then thwarted her career, just as Van Heflin’s well-meaning but drunk husband spoils Jones’s vertiginous waltz in Madame Bovary. Still, Jones is a crucial part of five varied and exceptional films, Cluny Brown, Gone to Earth, Carrie, Ruby Gentry and Beat the Devil, and her fascinating, in some ways morally compromised life operates as a cautionary tale with a partial happy ending. Like Dreiser’s Carrie Meeber, Jones looked fragile and insecure, yet it’s probable that this was just a front with which she fooled even herself; inside, she was built to outlast nearly all of her contemporaries. Such survival comes with a price, clearly visible in that last, fleeting glimpse of her Ruby Gentry, a grey-haired old sea salt staring straight ahead into the distance, lost in circular, guilt-ridden thoughts.



Who Killed My Father Is Heartbreaking but Prone to Pat Sociological Analysis

Édouard Louis’s latest is strong as a portrait of a family unable to communicate through anything but volatile, toxic outbursts.



Who Killed My Father

Edouard Louis’s father has been an important figure in each of his previous works, even when he’s never seen or mostly at the periphery (as in The History of Violence). With his latest, Who Killed My Father, Louis finally turns to directly examining his most important, damaged relationship. Both in his previous books and interviews, Louis has repeatedly acknowledged this broken relationship, largely stemming from the author’s open homosexuality. Alongside this, Louis’s prior works have circled around a number of themes to which he returns here: the French political and working classes, the small-town prejudices that surrounded his upbringing and drove a closeted homosexual boy to escape to more cosmopolitan Paris, and the role of state power in producing social and physical illness.

With Who Killed My Father, Louis invites inevitable comparisons to Abdellah Taïa, another talented French writer who’s also gay and largely estranged from his place of origin, and also primarily an autobiographical novelist. Like Louis, Taïa incorporates his complicated relationship with a parent into several of his books. Taïa also connects that relationship, his writing, and his experience with the society he left behind in Morocco and the one he found in France. But what distinguishes his writing in, for example, Infidels or Salvation Army from that of Edouard Louis in Who Killed My Father is a strong sense of meaning. Taïa incorporates his relationship with his mother, M’Barka, to convey something more meaningful and developed.

Louis begins down this same road before clumsily inserting a political tract at the end of Who Killed My Father that doesn’t knit as effortlessly with parts one and two. The book situates Louis’s relationship with his father front and center as compared to his previous work. It’s clear that he’s exposing the painfulness of their relationship for the purpose of speaking about political power and its physical and social toll on those who don’t possess it, but Who Killed My Father stumbles in conveying its message adequately.

Louis’s account of his father’s suffering and violence toward those around him is both painful and sharp. Who Killed My Father is strongest when Louis is demonstrating his father’s most private acts of kindness, as when the father gives Louis a copy of Titanic for his birthday after trying to convince him to ask for a more “masculine” gift. After Louis realizes that his carefully planned tribute to the pop band Aqua at a family dinner has embarrassed his father, the man reassures Louis that “it’s nothing.” In the book’s first and strongest part, Louis expounds not only on the relationship with his father, but also excavates what might have made his father the man he grew up with. At one point, he recounts finding a photograph of his father in women’s clothes—undoubtedly some adolescent joke, but also inconceivable from the man who insisted to his son that men should never act like girls.

Regrettably, part one ends with a trite conclusion that says everything and nothing at the same time. In part two, the story attempts to braid together all the malignant threads of Louis’s family narrative. Louis recalls igniting a violent outburst between his father and older brother as a result of his mother shaming him for acting too much like a girl (“faggot” is what some others in the neighborhood more precisely call him). The insinuation hurts and angers him so much that he betrays his mother’s confidence on another family secret, setting loose a new wave of violence. Part two is short and important to moving Who Killed My Father toward some wider evaluation of the questions Louis begins the book with, but it ultimately fails to find its footing by pivoting in part three to an unearned polemic against the political classes.

Who Killed My Father is strong as a portrait of a family unable to communicate (except in brief moments of tenderness) through anything but volatile, toxic outbursts, but the book at its weakest when trying to ham-handedly force this narrative into some broad theorizing about power and society and structural violence. Part one aligned beautifully with a narrative of meaning more comparable to Taïa at his best. Unfortunately, the story quickly falls apart when Jacques Chirac is indicted for destroying Louis’s father’s body through changes in health care coverage. It’s not that the questions Louis ends with aren’t necessary and important ones; it’s that there’s so little threading the narrative together into anything cohesive. What was the point of the first two-thirds of the book? His father was cruel, occasionally loving, but never mind because the state is killing him? The life of the poor is one of abject powerlessness against an unremittingly powerful and callous “ruling class”?

Louis deserves credit for the attempt to tie it all together into some grander commentary on the political class and its ambivalence, but the conclusion is simultaneously glib and condescending. Perhaps Louis didn’t intend it, but the book’s conclusion drains away responsibility for the cruelty and bigotry of those like his father, and patronizes them as with a quick How could we expect any better of the noble, working poor? Is it the state’s or the ruling class’s subjugation of his father’s body that’s somehow also responsible for his inability to sympathize with gays or immigrants? Of course, the poor are subjugated by the rich and Louis has written more meaningfully about the implications of that relationship elsewhere. But in Who Killed My Father, he inadvertently demonstrates that the answer isn’t to sanctify them any more than it is to demonize them.

Édouard Louis’s Who Killed My Father is now available from New Directions.

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Through the Years: Madonna’s “Like a Prayer” at 30

To celebrate this sacred anniversary, we’re taking a look back at the single’s evolution over the last three decades.



Through the Years: Madonna’s “Like a Prayer” at 25

This week Madonna’s iconic hit “Like a Prayer” turns 30. The song is, by all accounts, her most broadly beloved contribution to the pop-music canon, landing at #7 on our list of the Best Singles of the 1980s. Even the singer’s most ardent critics can’t help but bow at the altar of this gospel-infused conflation of spiritual and sexual ecstasy, a song that helped transform Madge from ‘80s pop tart to bona fide icon. To celebrate this sacred anniversary, we’re taking a look back at the single’s evolution over the last three decades.

Editor’s Note: This article was originally published on March 3, 2014.

Pepsi Commercial

Following a teaser that aired during the 31st Annual Grammy Awards in January of 1989, Madonna premiered “Like a Prayer” in a Pepsi commercial during The Cosby Show, the #1 rated series on U.S. television at the time. Part of a $5 million sponsorship deal with the soft-drink company, the ad, titled “Make a Wish,” was an innocuous bit of nostalgia that would soon be eclipsed by the scandal surrounding the single’s forthcoming music video.

Music Video

Madonna dances in front of burning crosses and kisses a black saint in a church pew in this modern morality tale about racial profiling and pious guilt, prompting both the religious right and cultural critics, like bell hooks, to cry foul. Eventually, the mounting outrage caused Pepsi to pull out of their multi-million dollar deal with the Queen of Pop. The singer’s response was coyly defiant.

Blond Ambition Tour

Madonna’s first live incarnation of “Like a Prayer” was also her best. Sure, her voice was raw and unrefined (“Life is a misstaree, eve’one mus stan alone,” she heaves), but her 1990 tour performances of the song displayed a rapturous, almost possessed quality that she’s never been able to recapture.

Mad’House Cover

Dutch Eurotrash group Mad’House’s claim to fame is their blasphemous take on “Like a Prayer” from 2002. The glorified Madonna cover band’s version is stripped of the original’s nuance and soul, a tacky, mechanical shell of a dance track. Regrettably, this is the version you’re most likely to hear on Top 40 radio today. (Only slightly less heretical, the cast of Glee’s rendition of the song peaked at #27 in 2010.)

MTV On Stage & On the Record

Then notorious for forsaking her older material, Madonna dusted off “Like a Prayer” in 2003 during the promotion of her album American Life. Thirteen years after her last live performance of the song, even Madonna’s comparatively reedier voice and noticeably more limited range couldn’t diminish its enduring magic.

Sticky & Sweet Tour

After performing crowd-pleasing but relatively anemic versions of “Like a Prayer” during her Re-Invention Tour in 2004 and Live 8 in 2005, Madonna reinvented the song for her Sticky & Sweet Tour in 2008, using elements of Mack’s “Feels Like Home” for an amped-up techno mash-up.

Super Bowl XLVI

Madonna closed her record-breaking Super Bowl XLVI halftime show in 2012 with “Like a Prayer,” and though she wasn’t singing live, it was the closest she’s ever gotten to her ecstatic Blond Ambition performances. (For those lamenting the lip-synching, she would go on to reprise this version of the song, completely live, during her MDNA Tour later that year.) And if there were any doubt, a stadium of nearly 70,000 football fans waving flashlights and singing along is a testament to the song’s transcendent, all-encompassing appeal. The performance’s final message of “World Peace” seemed attainable, if only for a brief moment.

Met Gala 2018

Last year, Madonna dusted off her old chestnut for an epic performance at Vogue magazine’s annual Met Gala. The event’s theme was “Fashion and the Catholic Imagination,” which seemed tailor-made for both the Queen of Pop and “Like a Prayer.” Madonna slowly descended the steps of New York City’s Metropolitan Museum of Art in a shroud, flanked on both sides by a choir of monks, as she sang a Gregorian-inspired rendition of the pop classic. The performance also featured a portion of a new song, “Beautiful Game,” and a cover of Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah.”

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Oscars 2019: Complete Winners List

The 91st Academy Awards are now behind us, and the telecast told us just about nothing that we don’t already know about AMPAS.



Green Book
Photo: Universal Pictures

The 91st Academy Awards are now behind us, and the telecast told us just about nothing that we don’t already know about AMPAS. Which isn’t to say that the ceremony wasn’t without its surprises. For one, whoever decided to capture Lady Gaga and Bradley Cooper’s performance of “Shallow” from A Star Is Born in one single take that would end with the pair sitting side by side, rapt in each other and framed in Bergman-esque repose, should hereby be responsible for every Oscar ceremony moving forward.

For some, though not us, Green Book’s victory for best picture came as surprise. As our own Eric Henderson put it in his prediction: “Those attacking the film from every conceivable angle have also ignored the one that matters to most people: the pleasure principle. Can anyone blame Hollywood for getting its back up on behalf of a laughably old-fashioned but seamlessly mounted road movie-cum-buddy pic that reassures people that the world they’re leaving is better than the one they found? That’s, as they say, the future that liberals and Oscar want.”

In the end, the awards went down more or less as expected, with the only real shock of the evening being Oliva Colman’s stunning upset over Glenn Close in the best actress race. (Glenn, we hope you are on the phone right now trying to get that Sunset Boulevard remake to finally happen.) Black Panther proved more indomitable than expected, winning in three categories (none of which we predicted), and Free Solo pulling a victory over RBG that was the first big sign of the evening that, then and now, AMPAS members vote above all else with their guts.

See below for the full list of winners from the 2019 Oscars.

Black Panther
Bohemian Rhapsody
The Favourite
Green Book (WINNER)
A Star Is Born

Spike Lee, BlacKkKlansman
Pawel Pawlikowski, Cold War
Yorgos Lanthimos, The Favourite
Alfonso Cuarón, Roma (WINNER)
Adam McKay, Vice

Christian Bale, Vice
Bradley Cooper, A Star Is Born
Willem Dafoe, At Eternity’s Gate
Rami Malek, Bohemian Rhapsody (WINNER)
Viggo Mortensen, Green Book

Yalitza Aparicio, Roma
Glenn Close, The Wife
Olivia Colman, The Favourite (WINNER)
Lady Gaga, A Star Is Born
Melissa McCarthy, Can You Ever Forgive Me?

Supporting Actor
Mahershala Ali, Green Book (WINNER)
Adam Driver, BlacKkKlansman
Sam Elliott, A Star Is Born
Richard E. Grant, Can You Ever Forgive Me?
Sam Rockwell, Vice

Supporting Actress
Amy Adams, Vice
Marina de Tavira, Roma
Regina King, If Beale Street Could Talk (WINNER)
Emma Stone, The Favourite
Rachel Weisz, The Favourite

Adapted Screenplay
The Ballad of Buster Scruggs, Joel Coen and Ethan Coen
BlacKkKlansman, Charlie Wachtel, David Rabinowitz, Kevin Willmott, and Spike Lee (WINNER)
Can You Ever Forgive Me?, Nicole Holofcener and Jeff Whitty
If Beale Street Could Talk, Barry Jenkins
A Star Is Born, Eric Roth, Bradley Cooper, and Will Fetters

Original Screenplay
The Favourite, Deborah Davis and Tony McNamara
First Reformed, Paul Schrader
Green Book, Nick Vallelonga, Brian Currie, and Peter Farrelly (WINNER)
Roma, Alfonso Cuarón
Vice, Adam McKay

Foreign Language Film
Capernaum (Lebanon)
Cold War (Poland)
Never Look Away (Germany)
Roma (Mexico) (WINNER)
Shoplifters (Japan)

Documentary Feature
Free Solo, Jimmy Chin and Elizabeth Chai Vasarhelyi (WINNER)
Hale County This Morning, This Evening, RaMell Ross
Minding the Gap, Bing Liu
Of Fathers and Sons, Talal Derki
RBG, Betsy West and Julie Cohen

Animated Feature
Incredibles 2, Brad Bird
Isle of Dogs, Wes Anderson
Mirai, Mamoru Hosoda
Ralph Breaks the Internet, Rich Moore and Phil Johnston
Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse, Bob Persichetti, Peter Ramsey, and Rodney Rothman (WINNER)

Cold War, Lukasz Zal
The Favourite, Robbie Ryan
Never Look Away, Caleb Deschanel
Roma, Alfonso Cuarón (WINNER)
A Star Is Born, Matthew Libatique

Film Editing
BlacKkKlansman, Barry Alexander Brown
Bohemian Rhapsody, John Ottman (WINNER)
Green Book, Patrick J. Don Vito
The Favourite, Yorgos Mavropsaridis
Vice, Hank Corwin

Production Design
Black Panther, Hannah Beachler (WINNER)
First Man, Nathan Crowley and Kathy Lucas
The Favourite, Fiona Crombie and Alice Felton
Mary Poppins Returns, John Myhre and Gordon Sim
Roma, Eugenio Caballero and Bárbara Enrı́quez

Original Score
BlacKkKlansman, Terence Blanchard
Black Panther, Ludwig Goransson (WINNER)
If Beale Street Could Talk, Nicholas Britell
Isle of Dogs, Alexandre Desplat
Mary Poppins Returns, Marc Shaiman and Scott Wittman

Original Song
All The Stars from Black Panther by Kendrick Lamar, SZA
I’ll Fight from RBG by Diane Warren, Jennifer Hudson
The Place Where Lost Things Go from Mary Poppins Returns by Marc Shaiman, Scott Wittman
Shallow from A Star Is Born by Lady Gaga, Mark Ronson, Anthony Rossomando, Andrew Wyatt and Benjamin Rice (WINNER)
When A Cowboy Trades His Spurs For Wings from The Ballad of Buster Scruggs by David Rawlings and Gillian Welch

Costume Design
The Ballad of Buster Scruggs, Mary Zophres
Black Panther, Ruth E. Carter (WINNER)
The Favourite, Sandy Powell
Mary Poppins Returns, Sandy Powell
Mary Queen of Scots, Alexandra Byrne

Visual Effects
Avengers: Infinity War, Dan DeLeeuw, Kelly Port, Russell Earl, and Daniel Sudick
Christopher Robin, Chris Lawrence, Mike Eames, Theo Jones, and Chris Corbould
First Man, Paul Lambert, Ian Hunter, Tristan Myles, and J.D. Schwalm (WINNER)
Ready Player One, Roger Guyett, Grady Cofer, Matthew E. Butler, and David Shirk
Solo: A Star Wars Story, Rob Bredow, Patrick Tubach, Neal Scanlan, and Dominic Tuohy

Sound Mixing
Black Panther, Steve Boeddeker, Brandon Proctor, and Peter Devlin
Bohemian Rhapsody, Paul Massey, Tim Cavagin, and John Casali (WINNER)
First Man, Jon Taylor, Frank A. Montaño, Ai-Ling Lee, and Mary H. Ellis
Roma, Skip Lievsay, Craig Henighan, and José Antonio García
A Star Is Born, Tom Ozanich, Dean Zupancic, Jason Ruder, and Steve Morrow

Sound Editing
Black Panther, Benjamin A. Burtt and Steve Boeddeker
Bohemian Rhapsody, John Warhurst (WINNER)
First Man, Ai-Ling Lee and Mildred Iatrou Morgan
A Quiet Place, Ethan Van der Ryn and Erik Aadahl
Roma, Sergio Diaz and Skip Lievsay

Makeup and Hairstyling
Border, Göran Lundström and Pamela Goldammer
Mary Queen of Scots, Jenny Shircore, Marc Pilcher, and Jessica Brooks
Vice, Greg Cannom, Kate Biscoe, and Patricia Dehaney (WINNER)

Live Action Short Film
Detainment, Vincent Lambe
Fauve, Jeremy Comte
Marguerite, Marianne Farley
Mother, Rodrigo Sorogoyen
Skin, Guy Nattiv (WINNER)

Documentary Short Subject
Black Sheep, Ed Perkins
End Game, Rob Epstein, Jeffrey Friedman
Lifeboat, Skye Fitzgerald
A Night at the Garden, Marshall Curry
Period. End of Sentence., Rayka Zehtabchi (WINNER)

Animated Short
Animal Behaviour, Alison Snowden and David Fine
Bao, Domee Shi (WINNER)
Late Afternoon, Louise Bagnall
One Small Step, Andrew Chesworth and Bobby Pontillas
Weekends, Trevor Jimenez

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