Selma was the only one of the eight movies nominated for a best picture Oscar—seven and a half of which I watched Saturday—that made me cry. I'm pretty jaded (gasp!) and I think homo sapiens sapiens is a mostly horrible thing (gasp gasp!); but every once in a while a dramatic representation punches me in the gut with not-really-new evidence for just how awful and capable of atrocity is the average human being. It doesn't help that white cops are still murdering black civilians 50 years later, and that our esteemed legislature is doing all it can to rescind the right to vote.

Boyhood was Linklater through and through—how did Séain put it? "Not quite tedious enough to be irksome"?—but the use of a stable cast over a long period of filming is a technique I wish more directors would have the patience and risk-tolerance to explore. I thought the choice of title a bit odd, given that girlhood gets some quality screen time as well (more so than, say, Fanny Ekdahl, who might as well be in a movie called Alexander och en släpptes syskon). Linklater's movie is not marred (unless you really want it to be, and I'm not saying I do, but I'm not saying I don't) by the fact that Patricia Arquette appears to be turning into Robin Wright—

—AND Ellar Coltrane, who plays her son, is adolescing into a dead ringer for the young Cary Elwes.

What, Oedipus, you disagree? As you wish.

Speaking of metamorphoses, Wes Anderson's aesthetic seems aimed inexorably toward Seussdom. Or possibly Kubricity. Dr. Seussbrick, that's what it is.

It is not a terrible stretch to imagine the role of young Zero Moustafa, novice lobby boy and protagonist of Grand Budapest Hotel, filled by Marvin K. Mooney, say, or a particularly fretful Who, instead of by Tony Revolori. In all, Budapest is Anderson's most adorable and beguiling confection to date (and speaking of which, even the ubiquitous pastries in this movie look like Dr. Seuss drew them!).

It is seemingly populated by everyone Anderson has ever worked with (and then some) and they all (oh, especially Adrian Brody) appear to be having a great time with the goofy melodrama and the script's mélange of Victorian eloquence and distinctly modern-sounding vulgarities—which they uniformly deliver without putting any accent or spin over their everyday elocution. I'm pretty sure my loudest laugh in all eight movies was elicited by Owen Wilson introducing himself as "Monsieur Chuck".

Okay. Deep breath. Sticks ready. A-five-six-and—

Just like Brando's precariously placed glass of water upstaged Tallulah Bankhead, so too do critics the web over seem mesmerized and distracted by the imminent divorce of J.K. Simmon's facial musculature from his skull; whence else the universal acclaim afforded Whiplash? No, that's not exactly fair. This movie (spoilers? no: spoilt) is an exercise in sustained tension (the classification "thriller" doesn't seem outrageous); a well-crafted variation on the "underdog musician [or athlete or...] with bullying but well-intentioned coach makes good in the final competition" plot template; and, finally, a mendacious and infuriating piece of shit.

In this case, freshman drummer Andrew Neimann (Miles Teller) is noticed, encouraged, abused, praised, terrorized, dirty-tricked, and inspired by professor and jazz bandleader Terence Fletcher (Simmons)—who apparently studied screaming under R. Lee Ermey—

—at the Vas-a-vah Conservatory, all on the way to a triumphant finale. So far, so whatthefuckever. Real-life NYC jazz composer/bandleader Darcy James Argue found the screenplay "incredibly clumsy, pedestrian, and cliché-ridden" and observed, "...there is already a near-perfect movie about a young man who has a fraught relationship with an emotionally abusive mentor, but is willing to do whatever it takes to rise to the top of a cutthroat NYC scene. (It even includes a much more authentic look at jazz and jazz musicians.) It's called The Sweet Smell of Success." That's as may be, but given that such a huge swath of jazz relies on laying embellishments over a figured bass (as it were), this may seem a hollow criticism (well, at least until you realize that Mr. Argue works largely outside that swath).

No, my problem with this flick isn't its banalities and overwrought tropes; Simmons and Teller (and director Damien Chazelle) do an awful lot to inject life into these tired ol' blues. Rather I have two issues. The first is aesthetic and probably negligible: namely, that these are horrible, horrible people with whom no amount of world-class drumming could induce me to spend another two hours. More importantly, though, the last act (last number, last drumbeat) entails an plot inconsistency so central and egregious it registers as betrayal, a mean-spirited prank on the audience with the director going Ha-ha! like Nelson Muntz... or, I suppose, more like Jodorowsky at the end of The Holy Mountain: Hey, all that heavy-duty spiritual shit I just threw at you? Surprise, it really was just shit!

Specifically (and here be them sperlers): by the time Andrew decides to force his talent on his (former) mentor (and the audience at a JVC jazz fest, live onstage), that mentor has already doffed his tin halo and renounced his earlier "I only want to inspire my kids to greatness" song-and-dance. He has planned, executed, and confessed to a  ruse, with malice afore- and abaftthought, for the sole purpose of ruining Andrew's chances of ever having a musical career. He has demonstrated beyond any reasonable doubt that he is a world-class asshole and serial abuser.

What's more, the kid, as a retaliatory "fuck you", starts an uncued drum intro to "Caravan" and cues in the other players, very pointedly obviating his teacher's purpose and presence as conductor. What happened next? Well, in Whoville they say... this egomaniacal ball of rage and spite, in the span of Caravan and another giddy, bloody drum solo, somehow forgives his (former) protégé for playing uncued—oh, yeah, and also for getting him fired from his tenured dream job—and actually grows a support-boner, smiling and urging Andrew on—C'mon, son, bring it on home to daddy!

And nobody even cared. They were too busy being Pavloved by the drum playing and cinematic technique to notice that the last 5 minutes of this film SUCKED SO HARD, THEY SUCKED EVERY SINGLE BIT OF GOOD OUT OF THE FIRST 95. They sucked like deep space—where no one can hear you flam—and they still occasioned wild applause at the final blackout.

That's not yelling; that's actually J.K. Simmons sucking the universe into a hell dimension.

Next Sunday: Birdman's brilliant hit knocks the foul pole, bounces out of play.