The little film that could, Beasts of the Southern Wild, has captivated critics and audiences with its audacious, raggedy, beautiful look at a New Orleans girl and her daddy surviving the elements as melting icecaps flood the bayou.
Not surprisingly, it’s emerged as an Oscar contender (though the Golden Globes people stubbornly shut it out in favor of much larger fare).
And they’re promoting it.
With bells on.
I recently ran into one of the film’s producers and he told me he’d just gotten back from Los Angeles, where they had a bunch of promo events, including concerts of the score, as done by an 11-piece orchestra.
“Eleven pieces?” I said, my eyes bugging. “That’s more than in the movie!”
“Exactly,” he replied, laughing.