Gong. Gong. Gong.

Oscars! It's that time of year, again! So many questions! Who's going to be lifting those gongs tonight? Are any of these films even out here yet? I have to stay up how late?! The main juice for Disaster Year is Best Director, and, as always, I haven't seen half the nominees' films. So, ignoring the unloved, let vague noodling commence!

In the spirit of progressive patronising, it seems unlikely the Academy will be able to resist giving Kathryn Bigelow a nod for The Hurt Locker; she's the first female nominee since Sofia Coppola was scuppered by Peter Jackson's least awesome Lord of the Rings entry in 2003. Not that she doesn't deserve it mind you, Hurt Locker had lots of interesting things to say about men so driven their home life becomes an abstraction. Speaking of which, the Academy might even gift Bigelow's former squeeze James Cameron another statue.

Avatar has turned over a couple of billion, and, in 3D, pioneered an experience that threatens to make piracy irrelevant. Emphasis on threatens. Regardless, Cameron's gotta be King Dick in industry boardrooms, he's given them another CinemaScope, and a premium price tag on tickets to match. Will that factor into ballot casting? Or will Cameron be side-lined in favour of his feature getting a Best Picture gong, or, failing that, a rash of technical Oscars? The Academy could do much worse than Avatar. On a pure movie maths level, Cameron works hard to wring the maximum amount of pay-off out of every piece of ruin tech that graces the screen.

Disaster Year's vote? Hopefully Tarantino will get it. The man's easily one of the world's most exciting directors. Inglourious Basterds juggles clashing tones effortlessly, ratcheting up a tension that wouldn't embarrass mighty Hitchcock. Plus, who doesn't want to hear a quick-fire coke rant masquerading as an acceptance speech? In conclusion: I don't know!