Everything is as usual in Hollywood: Brokeback Mountain was gay-bashed by the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences. It was easy to give the Best Actor award to the always-excellent Philip Seymour Hoffman for his portrayal of a “simpering fag” caricature of a character who was a “simpering fag” caricature of himself in real life. Capote’s partner might as well not have been there. Why the filmmakers even bothered offering a glimpse of him is a mystery. But, on the other hand, had they done even a little more with the relationship, it might have humanized Capote too much. Far better to leave the “simpering fag” image pure and untouched by anything too human…so satisfying to so many in the Academy.

Best actor? Heath Ledger will be the true winner forever for his virtually miraculous creation of a character that few actors would dare take on, and he could not have done it without the absolutely ravishing performance of Jake Gyllenhaal. If ever two actors deserved an Oscar, it is these two men.

And the others! Never in my life have I seen a film so perfectly cast down to the smallest walk-ons. All of them deserve honors, acclamation, triumph. There is Ann Hathaway, totally beguiling in the perfection of her beauty and bratiness; Michelle Williams, vulnerable and heartbreaking in the face of Ennis’s helpless betrayal; Linda Cardellini, the luscious small-town girl, hurt and uncomprehending at Ennis’s withdrawal from her life; Anne Faris, spot-on as a ditsy Texas belle; the young Kate Mara, who will love her dad no matter what; Mary Liboiron in a minuscule part that gets it just right as a bourgeois Texas matron; and—perhaps most of all—Roberta Maxwell as Jack’s plain, worn mother, who senses something about Ennis and her son although she will never know exactly what it was. Amazing actresses all!

And the men! Randy Quaid the living manifestation of an ornery Neanderthal boss; the wonderful Peter McRobbie as Jack’s sour, beaten-down, and unforgiving father; Graham Beckel as Jack’s father-in-law in a perfect portrait of a rich, mechanized Texas redneck; Larry Reese, a picture-perfect prairie preacher; Scott Michael Campbell, who sweetly pegged the essence of the good husband and father; and, finally, the beautiful David Harbour, who turned the tiny role of Jack’s ranch neighbor into a glowing jewel of unspoken meaning.

And of course, Brokeback Mountain was certainly the best film not only of the year but also of many years. The academy has forever sullied itself in the great history of Hollywood that will one day be written. As for Oscars parties I will never again attend one nor will I ever tune in again...I will indeed, henceforth, host a Not-The-Oscars party on that now smirched evening for the rest of my life... I urge everyone to do the same. And so, in closing, may the Academy of Motion Picture Bigotry and Sciences go to hell.

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