actors part ii, or "a single man."

We're back! I'm still ruling world and I'm still picking this year's Oscars, and this year's award goes to...God, this is killing me, but it's not you, Colin Firth, even though I love love love you and I am so buying the A Single Man DVD when it comes out. The same cannot be said for you, Mr. Crazy Heart, even though I love love love you too, Jeff Bridges, and I approve of the "It's Your Time" Oscar that will bestowed upon you on Gay Super Bowl Sunday.

Oooo....it's the establishment in me and I hate it, but I do kind of believe in the "It's Your Time" Oscar, and really, JB is pretty fabulous. And hot. And he's been quietly married to the same woman for a long time, which is fabulous and hot.

But this installment of "2009: The Year of the Actor," is all about you, Mr. Ubiquitous Stuffy English Dreamboat. Your chilly, neatly pressed, fastidious persona belies a tender, ever-on-the-verge-of-breaking heart and hot-blooded sexuality that beat just below the surface, and buddy, you've cornered that market like nobody else EVER. We adored you in Pride & Prejudice and your presence in Bridget Jones's Diary allowed us to sit for two hours without projectile vomiting. But nothing could have prepared us here at TT&CF for this, your portrait of a man overwhelmed with quiet agony and grief that has no voice.

And on that note, a moment of silence.

Okay, in that moment of silence, you couldn't see this, but I was shaking my fist at you, Tom Ford. First you revolutionize the House of Gucci, and now this. I remember when you up and left the fashion world, moved to L.A. and ensconced yourself in your Bel Air mansion to "write screenplays." And yes, I rolled my eyes. I remember how you usurped my beloved Vanity Fair Hollywood Issue in 2006. It sucked, and I rolled my eyes again. I was resolutely prepared for your failure with all the schadenfreude I could muster. And then this.

But you had to go and put my beloved icon in your flick + be the toast of the Venice Film Festival. How could I resist? And then you had--you just had to--direct a first film of such visceral beauty and power, it left me stunned and lingered in my head for weeks. You had to overwhelm me with every lush element--each a character of its own--the costumes, the set design, the music, the men! Usually I hate this, when every facet of a film storms onto the screen, a la Al Pacino, demanding an Oscar. Ford's work came together as gorgeous feast for the senses. This wasn't a film you ate with a spoon; you slurped it from the tureen and dumped the rest over your head.

But the one element that saved it from drugging you into a narcotic lull with its style was Colin Firth. His portrait of man consumed with suicidal grief over the death of his lover cuts through the layers of butter cream and ganache and expertly whipped sweets like sharp but oh-so-subtle knife. I really can't ever remember watching such a duality of beauty and agony that is A Single Man.

But I'm sorry, my darling. While you won't be holding the statue this year, I promise that one day, you too will win an "It's Your Time" Oscar. Remember, I rule the world.