Letters From London
Humorous Views on London Culture, Royals, Gossip and Politics
It's a Man's World on International Women's Day - 8 March 2010

“She’s a man’s man.” “She’s made a butch film.” “She’s directed the film like a man.” “She’s
directed from a man’s point of view.”  “Is she a man?” “It’s a male movie.”

Evidently creativity is gender-based. Who knew? The critics just couldn’t allow her to be a
woman director who won; they had to make her into a man.

If Kathryn Bigelow wasn’t soft-spoken, terribly pretty with the perfect figure and the perfect
flowing hair with 25 years in the business, would she have been chosen to be the first female
director in the history of the Oscars…82 years of men only in fact. Only 5 have ever been
nominated. Pathetic. We can assume this was a one off.

Rumour has it that Hollywood hates
Avatar’s director, James Cameron, so what better than to
vote the lowest-grossing film ever to win best picture, $15m.
Avatar has become the biggest-
grossing film in history, taking more than $2bn in the box office.

"I've extolled her virtues to the world and supported her as a film-maker. I'd be tremendously
proud if she won." Ah, the little woman. Condescending praise from her ex, aka The King of the
World, winning for that crap film,
Titanic that is in the same category as On Golden Pond and
Out of Africa for starters.

So it’s a male movie then.  Hmmm. I’d have to be bound, gagged and dragged from my flat by
balaclava clad ex-SAS, thrown into a van, driven to the cinema, deposited on a seat, tied to it
and threatened with stale popcorn, flat soda and melted milk chocolate before I could even
imagine sitting through the first five minutes of any chick-flick. Let’s be serious here. Adventure
films are exciting and fun. The whingeing, moaning, superficial sentimentality of Jen (Anniston) is
beyond interminable tedium and unreserved stupidity.

Continuing the tradition, the Oscar ceremony was so boring you’d have had to stick pins in your
thighs to keep awake…forget alert. The red carpet should be rolled up with those solipsistic
celebrities still on it. Outrageous preening, chin implants up, is my bum big enough in this, I’m so
gorgeous…the usual.

Highlights: Meryl doing her typical throw-head-back-in-hysterical-abandon, Tarantino looking
more and more like Frankenstein’s monster, Sarah Jessica Parker in her rabbit-in-headlights
dress, James Cameron’s fawning bird-like wife whose neck must have been stiff from gazing at
him every two and a half seconds for fear he’d disappear up his own arse, those obsequious,
sycophantic testimonials delivered to the best actor/actress nominees.

“Whose dress are you wearing?”
 “DiorSaintLaurentChanelVersace.” ”“How do you feel about
being nominated?”
 “Great.” “How do you feel about winning?” “Great.” “How does it feel to hold
it?”
“Heavy.” “Where will you put it?” “In the bathroom.” “Will you be flogging it on ebay?” “You
bet!”