The best thing about awards season is picking a favorite movie and rooting for it for five long months, to the point that my love for said film becomes less of an earnest passion and more of a wildly fun joke. Last year, that movie was Phantom Thread. This year, it will probably be Widows or A Star Is Born (despite the fact that I’ve seen neither). But the second best thing about awards season is picking a least favorite movie and dumping on it so hard for five long months, to the point that I condition myself into perceiving the movie not only as a piece of utter shit, but as my sworn enemy, the cultural artifact I hate most, my cinematic kryptonite. Last year, that movie was Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri. This year, it will almost certainly be First Man.
Ah yes, First Man, a movie written and directed by Damien Chazelle, the guy who has made not one but two movies about heroically suffering male artists and the women who ultimately decide not to tolerate them. There was Whiplash—a movie I honestly don’t mind but have no desire to ever watch again—and La La Land, a movie that begins as an homage to classic musicals but quickly devolves (after a single number!) into a deranged vision of Hollywood (not to mention gender roles in cis heterosexual relationships) that would be comical if it weren’t diametrically opposed to the reality of the industry.