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And the winners are: a tedious title, dim horror fans and a movie date turn-off

Here we are in a rare, brief lull in the film awards season. The Bafta nominations have been announced, the Oscar noms are next. Until then, I propose a few alternatives to keep things ticking along. Best Actor, Best Picture — yeah, whatever. Here are the awards that tell us what we truly want to know about 2018’s movies...

Worst title

An essential gong for those who enjoy judging books by their covers. Sherlock Gnomes is a groaner. Fifty Shades Freed is gobbledygook. For its unintended ennui, Mamma Mia! Here We Go Again is a contender. But it has to be given in honour of the poor designer tasked with fitting The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society on a poster.

Stupidest film controversy

We love outrage in these Twittery times, don’t we? In 2018 the cultural appropriation debate dominated; anti-bullying campaigners urged us to #BoycottPeterRabbit because of the bunny’s merciless abuse of Farmer McGregor; and the American Right huffed and puffed over Damien Chazelle’s Neil Armstrong biopic First Man because it wasn’t patriotic enough.

But the stupidest controversy? The “Bird Box challenge” saw fans of the Netflix horror show don a blindfold and attempt everyday tasks. This led to many minor injuries and a car crash when a bird-brained 17-year-old from Utah tried to drive blind. “Honestly, I’m almost embarrassed to have to say, ‘Don’t drive with your eyes covered’, but apparently we do have to,” a local police officer said.

Worst film to see on a date

A dead cert, this one. For turn-offs, nothing rivals the self-important nastiness of Lars von Trier. In his latest effort, The House That Jack Built, Matt Dillon’s psychopathic Jack bludgeons, mangles, strangles, stabs, shoots and boob-slices his way through women (plus two children and, eventually, some men). If a romantic hopeful suggests this for a hot date, a simple “no thanks” won’t do. Block their phone number and consider moving house.

Happy New Year? Still? Don’t be an ass

“Happy New Year!” read the opening line of the PR’s email. It’s a friendly sentiment, but come on — we’re past January’s halfway point. How far do we have to get into 2019 before it’s socially unacceptable to greet people thus? What we need is an official cut-off.

I suggest January 14. In medieval Europe this was the Feast of the Ass, celebrating the donkey’s role in the holy family’s flight into Egypt. One practice was that congregations would “hee-haw” at the priest rather than give the usual replies. I plan a similar response next time someone wishes me a “Happy New Year”.

Cat woman’s stories still have claws

Kristen Roupenian’s Cat Person was a viral hit when it was published by The New Yorker in December 2017. Its bleak portrayal of a woman’s experience of crap sex and a bad break-up chimed with readers in the #MeToo era.

Kristen Roupenian (Urszula Soltys)
Kristen Roupenian (Urszula Soltys)

A little over a year later, will any of her new short stories in her debut collection, You Know You Want This, published next month, similarly capture the public mood? Is that even Roupenian’s intention?

Writing in yesterday’s Standard, Phoebe Luckhurst and David Sexton didn’t think so. With respect to both of them, I’m not so sure. The best story in her collection, The Good Guy, is a deep dive into the mind of a self-loathing man who hates himself just as much as the women he beds.

In a time when all it takes is a Gillette advert to launch everyone into angry online arguments about modern masculinity, I think Roupenian has once again written a story of the moment.

Stop getting cross about crucifixions

There's a mini trend in contemporary art that needs to end. Let’s call it “ironic crucifixion”. Over the years, many Banksy wannabes have depicted mock Passion scenes with pop culture figures to make A Very Important Statement.

Here’s another. “McJesus”, a sculpture of a crucified Ronald McDonald by Finnish artist Jani Leinonen, attracted hundreds of Christian protesters outside Israel’s Haifa Museum of Art last week.

The most appropriate response to something now so hackneyed isn’t placards or cries of “blasphemy”, but a yawn.