The pinnacle of the award season is once again upon us with The Oscars ceremony just a day away. By now we already know who the awards are most likely being presented to. Alejandro Iñárritu will in all probability take another award for Best Director, the greedy bastard, while Leonardo DiCaprio will be pulling out an acceptance speech that resembles a lost treasure map, carefully preserved over the past twenty years in a jar of his own tears. Sadly, many of their colleagues won’t be there to see it.

Vast numbers of the black community have sworn to boycott the awards because the establishment failed to recognise them during the nominations. I can fully empathise with their situation, I haven’t received a nomination for the past 24 years running. There were some stellar performances that were sadly overlooked for nomination. Will Smith (Concussion), Michael B Jordan (Fantastic 4 Creed) and Idris Elba (Beasts Of No Nation) to name but a few. I don’t believe any would have won their respective award, however, the recognition alone is considered an achievement nonetheless. Unfortunately, this year’s awards are seemingly sponsored by a brand of laundry soap “For award winning Whites.”

Speaking of recognition, it had me wondering. Will they ever make a movie about me? I suppose it’s a rather vain question, which I guess is why I’m asking it. I often find myself dreaming about a scenario such as this, wondering who on Earth would portray me on the big screen.

By my own admission I have a face best suited to radio, but that didn’t seem to step in the way of Adam Driver’s dreams. It seems there’s a mask to suit everybody. So who would be suitable for such a role? “Perhaps Tom Hardy or Chris Hemsworth,” I muse. My wife can’t even manage her usual look of derision, laughing at what I can only assume is my expense. It’s true that the filmmakers would have to veer from the source material to cast one of these powerhouses, but it has been done before.

The character, Jack Reacher, was written as a man almost seven feet tall and built like a tank on steroids. It was only logical then to cast Tom Cruise. I wonder what had gone through the minds of the producers to ignore these major character attributes, by instead casting a man who could be used as a tampon. I’m surprised they didn’t just go the whole nine yards and give the role to Sandra Bullock.

Grounding my expectations, my wife and I consider any realistic candidates. He would have to be built like a six year old girl, be socially awkward and have a fluffy head of unruly hair. With a regretful sigh we instantly arrive at the same conclusion. Michael Cera.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m quite the fan of his movies and can see myself in a lot of his roles. When I first saw Scott Pilgrim Vs The World, it was like watching my own biopic play out before me. The problem? Michael Cera isn’t about to win awards any time soon. Should this even bother me given the hypothetical nature of the whole thing? Of course it should. If I can’t win an Oscar in my own imagination then what is the point of even having one.

Having settled on a suitable actor I suddenly realised a major plot hole. The plot line itself. What is this movie even going to be about? What would even prompt them to make a movie about me? I contemplate it being a simple biopic of my life after presumably performing feats of greatness. Perhaps I’ll venture into a life of crime and they’ll create a comedy thriller filled with fast cars and exotic women locations. Or perhaps it will be a film about the romance between my wife and I. I like that idea.

Mulling over these thoughts I decide that maybe a combination of them all would be a wonderful idea “Like True Romance!” I exclaim.
“He kills her pimp so they can run away together,” My wife chimes in, unimpressed with the comparison.
“Exactly!” I resume “Isn’t that the most romantic thing you’ve ever seen?” I feel my wife and I are on very different pages.

Feeling somewhat disheartened by the whole thing, it seems that even in my wildest dreams, there seems no logical reason why a movie would ever be made about me. Drowning my sorrows in a glass of Banana Milk, I begin to come to terms with the fact I’m just not “Rock ‘N’ Roll” enough. It is then I realise that perhaps this whole dream is in my very own hands.

Every movie needs a screenwriter. A well written script is everything to a movie, without a good script, you can’t have a good movie. Maybe a realistic goal would be to write my way onto the big screen. They made a movie from the Transformers script after all, so how hard could it be. Rolling up my sleeves, I grab my journal and begin jotting ideas as fast as the pen will allow me. What is life if you’re not striving towards an unrealistic dream of fantastical proportions. See you at The Oscars, Michael Cera.

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