Seven Pounds is a parade of high-pitched misery viewed through a honey-soaked lens with a December release date, otherwise known as Oscar Bait.
But even though every year we get five or six films positioned the precisely same way, as David Poland writes, the knives are out for this particular film for a particular reason:
The Kill Will campaign has reached full
steam. The media is drooling to get its shots in against the undeniable
biggest movie star in the world. They didn't believe in him in
The Pursuit of Happyness, obsessing on the title spelling and
his son in a supporting role ... And now, another drama, very much in the European
style that critics always claim they want more movies to emulate, complex,
forcing the audience to think from frame one until “The End,”
and there is very little buzz around his central performance as a man
trying to do at least three very complex things at once.
The Playlist has cataloged many examples of this campaign, including the NY Post's decision to spoil the highly guarded ending and the Village Voice breaking Sony's review embargo to write: "Dispiritingly obvious and phony from top to bottom".
To say Seven Pounds is hokey melodrama is like complaining that there's
too much coffee in your coffee. It gives a B-movie pulp treatment to the romantic drama formula, I'm not sure if that's exactly what the genre needed. But after sitting through Australia anything seems fair. And I don't know which America these critics are residing in, but a film being phony or cliche is not a mutually exclusive concept to box office or Oscar success. And such focused disdains begs the question, is anything about the premise or execution of Seven Pounds really anymore absurd than anything about The Curious Case of Benjamin Button (a film no one can discuss without mentioning Forrest Gump), The Wrestler or The Reader?
Here's a cliche for you: the movie business is just that, a business. And as much as as some of us having poking fun at the grotesque display of self-congratulation and excess winning an Oscar means something in that business (even if in recent memory, its benefits have not seemed all that tangible). Every actor who achieves any modicum of success sets a goal to win an Oscar at some point in their career, they would be a fool not to (we should all be so lucky to have such clear metrics for achievement in our chosen enterprises). And to accomplish that goal there are certain films that are going to get an actor across the finish line and some that won't.
The roles that are available to black actors are proven to be more histrionic. There just are not roles for black actors in films with the lofty literary cache of Brokeback Mountain or prestige of The Departed. There has never been a black Queen of England.
The roles that have seen black actors get Academy wins in recent memory have been the genocidal dictator Idi Amin (Forest Whitaker), Ray Charles (Jamie Foxx in not such a terrible role but Ray was such an abysmal film it was beneath any kind of human dignity) and let us never forget that poor Halle Berry had to be molested twice to get her Oscar.
There's no need to lay all the blame for this phenomenon at the feet of the big studios either. The scrappy Sundance darlings that have made it to Oscar night of late have been Little Miss Sunshine (Alan Arkin was nominated), Transamerica (Felicity Huffman was nominated), Junebug (Amy Adams was nominated) and Juno (Ellen Page was nominated). The indies with black characters? Hustle and Flow (Terrence Howard was nominated).
Now Will Smith, long reviled by some critics because of his massive box office successes, has chosen a racially neutral role where he gets to cry, make bad choices, lash out with violence, mourn and wind up the hero all without having to wear an obnoxious prosthesis, take steroids or be a Nazi. But suddenly all the world's a hater.
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