I see tons of movies.  I mean, a lot.  But without fail, every year, I see only a handful of Oscar nominees.

This year is no exception.  I’ve only seen two of the best picture nominees.  And for one reason or another, every single nominee annoys me.  Let’s find out why:

Gangs of New York. Wait a minute.  You mean DiCaprio wasn’t actually killed at the end of Titanic?  That was just a special effect?  And now he’s in yet another sweeping three-hour epic?  Michael Moore can call off the dogs; we know why Columbine happened.

Chicago. Musicals turn me into the grumpy father from Monty Python’s Search for the Holy Grail: as soon as characters open up their mouths, I want to run in and shout “Stop that!  Stop that singing immediately!” The whole genre is lost on me.  Except for Fiddler on the Roof, Man of La Mancha, that Buffy episode, and anytime I feel like belting it out in the shower.

The Hours. I read the book and it was decent, but I’m boycotting the movie.  Nicole Kidman as Virginia Woolf?  There’s a brilliant casting idea.  If you must acknowledge Kidman’s work, couldn’t you just make up a category called “Best Performer with a Fake Nose”?  You could throw in Roberto Benigni from Pinnochio, Stitch from Lilo and Stitch, and Jennifer Aniston from The Good Girl.

The Two Towers. I saw this one and it was okay, but I don’t appreciate the glamorization of leading men with beards.  Listen to what girls talk about these days: it’s Aragorn this and Aragorn that.  I don’t like beards.  They’re itchy to grow and they leave little red scratchy marks on the faces of others.  Hollywood needs to get a social conscience and stop brainwashing our youth with the message that if you grow a beard, you’ll play a key role in the eradication of ancient evil forces.

The Pianist. I concede that this is a great movie and a genuine work of art.  I’m as sick of Holocaust movies as you are, and the first half offers nothing new, but the final half is riveting and it ends up being about larger issues of art and destiny.  No really.

Still, all Holocaust movies must have a contrived, sentimental scene that wrenches you out of the reality of the story.  In this case--I’m not spoiling anything significant here, but skip down if you’re Mr. or Mrs. Anal Guy or Girl about these kinds of things--prisoners from the Warsaw Ghetto are waiting to be carted off to camps.  A man starts reading aloud from a dog-eared copy of “Merchant of Venice"--Shylock’s speech, of course.  “If you prick us, do we not bleed? if you tickle us, do we not laugh? if you poison us, do we not die?” As if you’d be reading Shakespeare and making profound literary statements when you’re half starved and about to be sent to Hell. 

The scene is equivalent to the one in Schindler’s List (which did not appear in Thomas Keneally’s book, Mr. Steven “I Should Just Stick with The Goonies” Spielberg), where Schindler starts pulling stuff out of his sock drawers: “These jockey shorts!  I could have sold them on Half.com and saved one more life!  These Trojans!  I didn’t require such extravagant luxuries!  I had benevolent goodness to spread on this Earth!’

Or however that scene goes.  I tried to put it out of my memory by beating myself about the head with a croquet mallet, so I may be fuzzy on a few details.

Next time: I get seriously annoyed about the nominees for “Best Key Grip.”