Did anyone else notice that, last night, a minor revolution took place?
You might have been napping when it happened, right in the midst of one of the most boring Oscars® telecasts ever. It’s like they took the opportunity of it being the 80th anniversary to give the viewers not-very-inspired, short-attention-span montages of the history of every single award. Because .5 seconds of Grand Hotel is so edifying.
Not that I’m blaming Jon Stewart. He was actually a really good host. Sure, I’m bummed that he didn’t have enough time with his fresh-off-the-picket-line writers to put together a mildly hilarious taped opening like he did in 2006, but after sitting through four years of Whoopi channeling Bruce Vilanch, one must be thankful for small favors. What I liked about Jon Stewart is that, besides skewering the industry in ways small enough that they usually don’t notice, he actually went to the trouble to acknowledge when nice moments happened, and he did it in a way that was snark-free without seeming phony. I like that guy.
And last night, he even made a nice moment happen when he brought out Marketa Irglova from Once to give her acceptance speech for Best Song, which was completely cut off earlier by the “shut up” music. It was a memorable moment, and one which I don’t think has ever happened before, and it brought a nice finish to what I hope will be a revolution in the goddamn awful Best Song category.
Because last night, 3 songs were nominated from that piece of Disney shit Enchanted. Three songs! And they were each pukier and more saccharine than the one before. And the staging of each was more painfully over the top than the one before. It was like High School Musical, only re-cast with the dancers from the old Carol Burnett Show. Seriously. I haven’t felt so nauseous since the Rob Lowe/Snow White debacle.
And then, Marketa, and her co-star/co-writer Glen Hansard came out and sang that really beautiful little song from their cheap-ass quirky little movie, and it was nice. It was really nice. And when they finished, the audience went nuts. The deafening applause seemed to me to be saying “No more Disney, please! We like that nice adult song! In the future, Academy voters, we wish to express our approval of songs of sophisticated construct and nuanced meaning!” And then the nice song won, and it was as if everyone in the audience felt vindicated.
Like I said, I hope the Academy notices that they just got served a nice hot steaming plate of WE HATE YOU, buuuuuuuuut, this is the same organization who thought it would be a good idea to stage a flamenco interpretation of the score for Saving Private Ryan.
So I’m not getting my hopes up.
By the way, what did Jennifer Hudson do to piss off the Hollywood gays? Because I don't know how else to explain how an Oscar®-winning actress consistently gets such bad styling advice:
Attack of the big white uniboob.
Ummm, what else? I have to say that the Best Actress award pissed me off. First of all, because it’s always announced before the Best Actor award, because it’s, well, not as important, of course. Secondly, that French chick won over Julie Christie, but that’s because she was playing Edith Piaf, and we know that the fastest way to the heart of an Academy voter is to star in a biopic. They only thing better, Oscar®-wise, than starring in a biopic, is starring in a biopic about a singer!
Except when you’re a woman, and the singer is a man. Then you’re going to lose that Oscar® to some weird cold androgynous chick playing a cold androgynous corporate lawyer.
Speaking of whom, hey, Tilda, would it be too much to ask if you just put on a tiny bit of makeup? Just every now and then. When you are going to be on a television show that billions of people watch, for instance, would be a good time to slap on a little rouge and maybe some lipstick.
Also, the Spanish Inquisition called. They want their robe back.
And as long as I’m unloading on the bad taste of the Academy members, I have to say that I really fucking hate Daniel Day Lewis. I just hate him. I thought he overacted in My Left Foot, I thought he stunk up The Age of Innocence (not that that was hard), and in Gangs of New York, I thought he chewed up the scenery, spit it out, stomped on it, and then chewed it up again and shat it out in the shape of an Oscar®! The only reason the Academy didn’t bestow upon their darling Daniel his second award for that movie was because Adrien Brody played the holocaust card. Well, so now he’s got that second award for his performance in P.T. Anderson’s There Will Be Blood, and when he accepted it last night, he said, referring to the statuette in his hand, “it seems to me that this sprang like a golden sapling out of the mad, beautiful head of Paul Thomas Anderson.”
See what I mean? Hate him.
Hankering for some year-old snark? Check out last year’s Oscar® review.
Not enough? How about some crusty two-year old whinings?