While watching Natalie Portman's eyes well up continually as the young widow Jaqueline Bouvier Kennedy in Pablo Larrain's arty biopic Jackie, I realized GRIEF is this Oscar season's primary theme. Portman's Jackie walks dazedly through sets familiar from House of Cards in what to my untrained eyes look like a pink Chanel suit, suitably blood stained following her husband's 1963 assassination-by-sniper. This Jackie is in an echo-chamber of grief while the father of her children and the country, JFK, lies on the cold steel of a pathologist's table, brains here and body there. She snaps at her brother-in-law Bobby (a lost Peter Sarsgaard), bristles at that ambitious Texan-turned-president LBJ, confesses to craggy John Hurt as "The Priest," and weaves her Camelot blarney to Billy Crudup's mellifluous-voiced "The Journalist." Greta Gerwig remains lost under a wig bigger than her part as the First Lady's lady-in-waiting Nancy Tuckerman.