The Golden Raspberry Awards, also known as the Razzies, had an easy choice for Worst Supporting Actor in 2015. That's not to say that any one performance was notably worse than the others. When it comes to the Razzies, that's beside the point. The main goal of the Razzies is not to showcase the worst in film, but to blindly hack at low-hanging fruit in a desperate bid for attention. And as luck would have it, Eddie Redmayne, who had won an Oscar the previous year for The Theory of Everything, was nominated for Worst Supporting Actor for his villainous turn in Jupiter Ascending. As obvious targets went, he was no Kardashian, but he would do.
Giving Redmayne the "prize" would guarantee at least a few headlines delighting in the juxtaposition between Oscar gold and.well, whatever the Razzies are. If they were lucky, he'd show up in person to prove he was a good sport, like The Blind Side-era Sandra Bullock did for All About Steve five years earlier. Things played out as expected. Redmayne "won" the Razzie, beating out competition like Kevin James in Pixels and Jason Lee in Alvin and the Chipmunks: The Road Chip. As is the case with the vast majority of Razzie nominees, he declined to make an appearance. He would go on to other notable roles on screen and stage, leaving Jupiter Ascending as a mildly embarrassing footnote in his career. But does it deserve better?
Jupiter Ascending, the Wachowskis' earnest, ambitious, utterly ludicrous space opera, was a box office bomb upon its release. Many critics lambasted its convoluted plot (something about a space princess, genetically modified soldiers, and an intergalactic family of evil rich weirdos) and howled with laughter at its clumsy dialogue. But even then, it had its defenders; in time, a cult following developed, especially among women and LGBTQ+ sci-fi fans. Some dislike the plot but admire the Wachowskis' creative vision, particularly the concept art and visual effects. Others genuinely enjoy the dazzling, unrestrained indulgence, which shows real passion and enthusiasm for classic sci-fi tropes while giving them a feminine twist. Still others giddily go along for the ride, seeing it as campy and silly in the best possible way. They may like the movie for different reasons, but they're all likely to agree on one thing: for better or worse, Eddie Redmayne is one of the most memorable parts of Jupiter Ascending.
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Redmayne plays the main villain, Balem Abrasax, the ruthless eldest son of an ultra-powerful family whose corporation produces an elixir of eternal life. If Jupiter Ascending were a normal movie, he would be an intimidating figure of stone-cold evil, like Darth Vader or Baron Harkonnen. But Jupiter Ascending couldn't be normal if it tried, and as such Balem is a screaming inferno of deranged psychosexual camp. He's the love child of Kylo Ren and Sting's codpiece from the 1984 Dune movie. He's Norman Bates as played by an evil gay cat from space. I can keep going with the metaphors all day, and I'd only scratch the surface.
Redmayne delivers almost every line in a hoarse, breathless whisper, as though he's trying to seduce someone through a crushed windpipe. His airbrush-smooth skin, glassy eyes, and puffy-lipped smile suggests a particularly self-obsessed plastic surgery addict. He swings wildly from narcotized calm to bug-eyed bursts of rage, with every line reading calibrated for maximum petulance. His voice cracks when he shrieks "go!" at his minion; when he declares "I create life!", it cracks again, this time while he clutches at the air like Skeletor. When Jupiter Jones (Mila Kunis) confronts Balem for killing her mother (who is now reincarnated as Jupiter... it's complicated), he gives her a big, soap opera-esque backhanded slap before choking out "how dare you?" with the histrionic verve of Faye Dunaway in Mommie Dearest. He somehow manages to overact plummeting to his death. It rules so hard.
At first glance, Redmayne's performance might seem like a classic case of a great actor jazzing up a paycheck gig with some attention-grabbing hamminess, but that's not giving the Wachowskis enough credit. Jupiter Ascending is an unruly, almost incoherent movie, but it was clearly made with care and passion. The Wachowskis are one of the few big-budget genre auteurs we have left, and while not every choice they make works, even their most bizarre moments never feel like an accident. If Eddie Redmayne is in Jupiter Ascending acting like an emphysemic drag queen, it's because that's what the Wachowskis wanted from him. And from what we know about the Wachowskis, it's not hard to see why.
Even now that the nerds have won the culture wars, there are still different kinds of sci-fi that are seen as more respectable than others: genre tentpoles like Blade Runner, or cerebral art films like 2001. Whether through prestige, name recognition, or influence, these are the kinds of sci-fi that are taken seriously. The Wachowskis, however, love all sci-fi - and I mean all sci-fi. They love Blade Runner as much as the next person, but they have a deep and abiding appreciation for the genre at its pulpiest and most colorful, from comic book serials to obscure anime. Jupiter Ascending is not a tastefully curated portfolio of influences; it's a glorious explosion of geeky id, paying homage to every schlocky B-movie and sci-fi novel the Wachowskis devoured in their formative years. The villains in these stories aren't all sinister badasses with booming voices; sometimes, they're just total weirdos in elaborate costumes. They don't have to be scary, or even particularly credible as a threat; they just have to be memorable.
Eddie Redmayne later said that his performance in Jupiter Ascending was "pretty bad." On the contrary, it's one of the most interesting things he's ever done. In a film that defies sense at every turn - half-canine loverboys, royalty-detecting bees, a Sean Bean performance where he doesn't die - Balem Abrasax stands out as one of its strangest, most singular creations. If Jupiter Ascending had a "normal" villain, one who was more like the smarmy Titus (Douglas Booth) or the calculating Kalique (Tuppence Middleton), the rest of the film would be flatter, less colorful, less deliriously camp. Love it, hate it, scorn it, but no matter what happens you can't take your eyes off of the spacefaring Oedipus with the voice of a chainsmoker. Redmayne may have won the Oscar for The Theory of Everything, but I know what performance I'll always remember him by.