Three cinemas, 1,315 minutes, two streaming platforms, too much sand and one vaping cardinal.

Every hero’s journey starts with a call to adventure. Maximus Decimus Meridius, or Russell Crowe as we call him, found his family dead and was sold into slavery. Forrest Gump started running. Luke Skywalker was summoned via a plaintive cry from a holographic Princess Leia. 

I, too, was called to a quest by a plaintive cry and a gladiatorial gut howl. 

The part of me that knows watching college students in the American mid-west do their skincare routines is akin to apple bobbing in battery acid was howling at the husk I’d become by the end of last year. The husk had raised some good points about not being able to remember people’s names, let alone watch or read anything substantive. The more exhausted I was, the more “get ready with me” Reels were offered by a serpent in the tree.  

I spent four days in late December weaning off the negligible dopamine hits supplied by our workplace’s Slack. My new drug of choice? The weather app. Surprisingly, I quickly tired of Auckland’s humidity levels and tide times and realised that plugging the rotted-out holes in my brain caused by months of peripatetic online behaviour and being busy, busy, busy would require a heavy-duty filler. I needed to be moved, excited and awed, and not indifferent, dead-eyed and bored. I needed art. I needed culture. I needed permanence.

This call to adventure is familiar to me. I love my busy life and vast but shallow knowledge of online things, but there’s always a worried hum in the background. I am squandering precious downtime, and while all is grist to the mill, I am spending too much of my time gobbling chaff.

To quell this existential panic, I’ve set myself cultural quests at the start of every year since 2021. I read all the books on the Ockhams fiction longlist that year. I rewatched my top three favourite TV shows – The Sopranos, Better Things and Six Feet Under – in 2023. I subscribed to the print edition of the New Yorker and the London Review of Books in 2022. I spent three months diligently reading them and nine months bringing plastic-wrapped magazines to people’s houses, shoving them into hands like bunches of cerebrally pleasing flowers.

I decided to try to watch all the Oscar-nominated best films before the Oscars this year. I was called to train for a half marathon during lockdown by my own beleaguered and softening body and succeeded in running one – how hard could sitting down watching films be? At any given moment, people all over the world are surviving illness, disease and war. In my mind, I imagine others doing weird endurance races through the desert, barefoot and drinking only the water they can tap from ancient trees. All I was called to do was watch as many Oscar-nominated films at a cinema as possible and use an abundance of streaming services if movie-going time got eaten by strong urges to lie down on my couch. 

A visitation by the free-spirited and committed Mikey Madison in lucite heels at The Hollywood foreshadowed my quest. I saw Anora in December and loved it. I watched it without prior knowledge, bringing only the baggage of adoring Madison in Better Things. It was fresh, funny and profane. Heading into January, with two weeks of holiday left, I felt empowered and knocked back the lure of 73 morning shed videos with nothing but my mind.

My supernatural aid arrived via email the day after New Year’s Day. A wise friend sent me a magical gift, a glowing sword with which to battle, by telling me about Silky Otter’s premium vouchers and membership scheme. For a small sum, I could prepurchase vouchers, eat many boxes of refillable popcorn and be financially committed to going to the movies regularly. I jumped in, booking tickets to Wicked and Conclave. Oscar nominations weren’t announced until January 23, and the ceremony will be held on March 3. I already had three best picture contenders strapped to my back. I was Frodo before the ring started to make my eyes roll back in my head.

I left Wicked ready to defend its length and the decision to split the source material to make two movies. I was full of joy, thrashing the soundtrack on my way home. I had followed and been delighted by the Grande/Erivo press tour, an exemplary performance art piece for our time, and I quickly forgave Michelle Yeoh and Jeff Goldblum for not being great singers. I held space and made an early call that while the film was a welcome reach back into Hollywood’s old-school golden era and a feat of scale and ambition, it would likely be judged a frothy confection compared to the other best film contenders. High on my own supply, I began formulating a way to exploit my fabulously unique insights and film-going experience as content. I opened the Notes app when I got home. Exactly 53 days later, I would realise I had made an awful mistake, but in January, anything felt possible after one short day in the Emerald City.

Every hero needs a mentor, and I meet a contender watching Conclave, a film I have previously summarised as a “twisty tale of intrigue, crises of faith and corruption within the Vatican”. Cardinal Tedesco, the vaping cardinal, gave me a pond into which I could look and see myself reflected back. Ballsy, outspoken and antagonistic, he will stop at nothing to achieve his quest. He is also power-hungry, rude, deeply conservative and racist, so not a good moral choice, but the vaping cardinal remains the standout visual gag of my journey. The film is fun, which might only be something lapsed Catholics say, but I would follow Fiennes, Tucci and Lithgow in frocks anywhere.

I regretted not seeing The Substance at the film festival last year, so I doubled my losses and watched it at home on Neon. I love schlocky B-grade horror, and The Substance is clever, witty, and a gore fest. Still fresh and enthusiastic, I ignored the tedious discourse online about whether it’s helping or hurting how we feel about ageing and whether it’s a “feminist film” and thought instead of the cinematic arts involved in perfectly capturing Margaret Qualley’s charisma and kineticism.

The intermission would be here if The Brutalist’s Brady Corbet were in charge of this journey. Returning to work in mid-January, I had forgotten about the fundamentals of that life, including needing time to work and time to sleep, eat, and exercise. A close read of my Notes app note reveals an apparent evaporation of the vast chasm of time between January 7 and whenever “tonight” is. The tonight in question refers to February 25. Despite working to eliminate a lifetime of procrastination habits and a notable decrease in the number of dreams I have about not knowing my lines for the role of Reverend John Hale in my all-girls high school production of The Crucible, I am still plagued by the crammer’s curse.

For those familiar with the hero’s journey, I am tempted, distracted and challenged for much of January and February. The distractions arrive before the Oscar nominations are out. I take a foolish trip down Punters Lane, using precious time to watch Babygirl, Nosferatu, The Apprentice and too many episodes of The Day of the Jackal and Black Doves. Good films and good shows, but not nominated or, obviously, ineligible. The attention span muscle developed over my holiday is atrophying, and it is only after telling people about this stupid quest that I am committed to writing about it and attempting to finish it.

Instead of just watching the films left on my list, I give in to my worst instincts and arrive at my abyss. Joseph Campbell describes the abyss as a “dark place of limited consciousness”. Sunk deep by my incessant need to know things, I bury myself under the weight of trade media and award-season podcasts. I listen to hours of Vanity Fair’s Little Gold Men podcast and walk around the house muttering PGA (Producers Guild Awards) and DGA (Directors Guild Awards). I commit the many awards season results to memory, wondering if I might know enough to work at Variety or the Hollywood Reporter. No one wants to talk to me about the SAGs or the BAFTAs. I know far too much about Hollywood’s Oscar campaign machine and talk (to myself) about races and voters with the same tone used by Patrick Gower during (real) election night specials. With six films to go, I appear beleaguered when asked what I’m doing each night by my colleagues. “I am going to another fucking movie”, I say, expecting an acknowledgement of my quest. As I work with well-adjusted people who still think going to the movies is “fun”, there is none.

I find a little more sympathy with the person obligated by vow to give me sympathy, my husband. Our daily text messages have become a catalogue of films I must watch. To save time, I often use Siri to dictate text messages. In trying to tell him I need to watch Emilia Pérez and Dune 2 that night, Siri sends a message saying I must watch Amelia’s period and Don.

As it turns out, Amelia’s period will be my undoing on this quest. Emilia Pérez was released in New Zealand on January 16 when I was in the bog of distraction. I missed the cinema screening window for the film, and it isn’t available on any streaming platforms here despite being available in the US, Canada and the UK. In the month that followed its release, the film became mired in controversy. As a completist, I will watch it, but right now, all I have to show is knowledge absorbed via osmosis and clips online. I know the film is divisive, and Zoe Saldana is still tipped to win an Oscar for her role.  Disappointingly, the viral “La Vaginoplastia” song will not be performed at the Oscars ceremony on Monday.

I watch I’m Still Here at the Bridgeway. Director Walter Salles has made a film about a specific period of Brazilian history, focused on one person’s very specific story, yet it feels universal. Based on a true story, Fernanda Torres stars as Eunice Paiva, wife of a former congressman abducted from his home in 1970s Rio by the military. Torres is phenomenal, and of the films nominated in this category, this one feels like it’s had and may still have real-world impact.

I try very hard to watch Dune 2 attentively on Tuesday night. I fell asleep during the first Dune movie. There was too much sand. I like the sandworm riding scene and think that at a different stage of my life, when not setting quests for myself, I will have enough room in my brain to properly understand who the Harkonnen are and why the Atreides bloodline must be destroyed. For now, while I did finish it, I have to play the Sex and the City post-it card.

Spinning plates to manage cinema scheduling and streaming platform releases, my only option for seeing The Brutalist is a Wednesday afternoon screening at Silky Otter. I feel close to the end of my journey here, ready to return home, enlightened and redeemed. Despite the panic rising in my throat about needing to watch another couple of films and file this ridiculously long chronicle, I sit in the dark and enjoy Brady Corbet’s epic and Adrien Brody’s performance. I wonder about the risk of saying Felicity Jones should win best supporting actress without seeing Zoe Saldana’s performance in Amelia’s period. I cry many times throughout The Brutalist, but most especially when having bent concrete to his will, the sun hits the Carrara marble altar and forms the shape of a cross just as Brody’s László said it would. The Brutalist is long, but I leave thinking that it’s not demanding to ask that people sit for three and a half hours and watch something, especially when the director has courteously included a 15-minute break to go to the loo. If the quest was started to repair my attention span, I might be on the threshold of revelation. I am now a fan of intermissions in films.

The last film I see is A Complete Unknown. I truly planned to watch the last film that I could watch, Nickel Boys, on Friday morning after it landed on Amazon Prime on February 27. Unfortunately, I need to finish this damn article. I promise anyone who has made it this far through this journey with me that I will watch it before the Academy Awards screen on Monday.

I’ve never thought of myself as a Bob Dylan aficionado. In fact, before seeing the movie, I had completely forgotten that I had gone through a Dylan phase. I still know all the words to The Hurricane. I go in lugging some unfair baggage about Timothée Chalamet because he is dating Kylie Jenner. This is hypocritical for someone who is still religiously watching The Kardashians.  Having scanned the available movie times, many of which are during the day, I also made some unfair assumptions about who this movie is for. I came out of the film surprised, impressed and convinced that Chalamet deserves the best actor award. I would say that seeing the film is a good lesson in not making glib assumptions, but more than one revelation per journey feels greedy.

After 10 weeks and 11 films, I’ve ended my Oscar odyssey, pending Nickle Boys over the weekend. I failed to watch every nominated film before my self-imposed deadline. Unless Emilia turns up on a streaming platform this weekend, I will fail before the award ceremony deadline arrives on Monday. At this point, I don’t care. The plaintive cry has been silenced, and I haven’t watched a make-up tutorial online in 53 days.

With the caveat I have not seen two of the films and missed a few that feature nominated actors, here are my predictions in the main categories.

Sent from my bed after nearly completing my quest two hours before deadline.

Best picture

Will win: Anora

Should win: I’m Still Here. Dreams are free. It will not win in this category but will win best international feature.

Could win: If I’ve learned anything, this Oscar race is like a fork in the road with a safe path you can take if you don’t like Sean Baker or are an older Academy voter. Deliciously camp trash with Ralph Fiennes polish is the safe path, so Conclave could still steal this one.

Best actor

Will win: Adrien Brody, The Brutalist

Should win: Timothée Chalamet, A Complete Unknown. Before seeing the Dylan biopic, I was one of my generation’s last remaining Chalamet detractors. After seeing it, I agree with everything Claire Mabey said in her review. He is electric. I am also upset I haven’t yet seen Sing Sing. As much as I want to, I can not credibly hang my hat on a Colman Domingo win based entirely on my deep appreciation for his domination of red-carpet fashion.

Could win: Chalamet. Unfortunately, his campaign lost a bit of steam, but he won the SAG award, so he has a decent chance of winning over the brooding and brilliant Brody.  

Best actress

Will win: Demi Moore, The Substance. It would be easy to be cynical about the heavy lift her campaign narrative has been doing, but her performance is fearless. 

Should win: Fernanda Torres, I’m Still Here.

Could win: Mikey Madison, Anora. She won the Bafta. I no longer know anything except what the Vanity Fair pod lords tell me, and apparently, the arc of the moral universe is bending towards Anora. Moore’s campaign also might have peaked too early (two weeks ago, which in award season time is Civil War era). Honestly, this is a crapshoot. 

Best director

Will win: Sean Baker, Anora

Should win: Brady Corbet for The Brutalist or Coralie Fargeat for The Substance. Only 16% of Oscar wins in the last 95 years have gone to women. Horror seldom makes the cut, and The Substance is a tour de force. The Brutalist is epic. I am tired of people moaning about film run times, and more movies should have an intermission.

Could win: It’ll be Corbet or Baker.

Best supporting actress

Will win: I am unqualified to call this due to the aforementioned access issues, but Zoe Saldana. She’s picked up every award so far, and frankly, after the Emilia Pérez campaign crashed and burned, they’d be throwing her a bone. 

Should win: Felicity Jones, The Brutalist. Sadly, the Emilia Pérez drama, while damaging that film’s chances, has sucked a lot of oxygen out of the room in this category. Jones’s portrayal of Erzsébet, a loyal, impassioned and equal partner to Brody’s László, is powerful. Her portrayal of living with constant physical pain is a masterclass in subtlety.   

Could win: Monica Barbaro, A Complete Unknown. She eats in every scene she’s in.

Best supporting actor

Will win: I am a bit screwed on this as all signs point to Kieran Culkin in A Real Pain, but after losing time down the Babygirl/Nosferatu/Apprentice cul de sac, I couldn’t squeeze it in, so let’s say Culkin. 

Should win: Edward Norton, A Complete Unknown. Earnest, heartfelt and complex as folk legend Pete Seeger.

Could win: Jeremy Strong, The Apprentice. It’s an outside chance, but he gives it everything as the pugilistic Roy Cohn, and it’s nice to have two Roy brothers to choose from.

The Academy Awards begin around midday (NZT) on Monday, March 3, and are streaming on Disney+. If anyone asks, I will be focused only on my job, at my desk, all day long.